


Hook Bewitched

by why_the_nightingale_sings



Series: Hook Enchanted [1]
Category: Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Neverland, Piracy, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_the_nightingale_sings/pseuds/why_the_nightingale_sings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The magic of Neverland gives strength to all those who find themselves there.  When two witches mistakenly land in the Never Sea, how will their magic be affected and how will the heart of James Hook be changed by what he finds in the arms of the sorceresses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dream Walking

**Author's Note:**

> Written in collaboration with Pirate-Girl1017 on fanfiction.net

Her back arched, his warm and calloused hand dragging across her breast and wrapping firmly around her waist, pressing her hips against his as he drove himself deeper and deeper into her. Their dark curls were similar enough to be familial, tangling together as his groans of lust filled the musky air of the cabin. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat, her lashes fluttering over her grey-blue eyes as her head fell to the side. The chair in the corner beside the bed was occupied, the other lady’s hazel eyes gleamed with arousal at the sight before her of the two coupling on the expansive bed. 

The man above her grunted a curse and her eyes returned to him, her nails raking down his back, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her, her moans mingling with his. He claimed her mouth in a fierce, heady kiss, her fingers tangling through his hair to hold him closer against her, his mustache and goatee scraping at her neck as she threw her head back to gasp in a breath of pure ecstasy. He growled, she screamed, the woman in the chair sat forward with a throaty hum of delight. 

Forget-me-not blue eyes flamed red and…

...and Abigail jerked awake. Her breasts rose as fell with her rapid breathing, her heart pounding at the image seared into her head of the devilishly handsome man who has just been inside her moments ago in her dream. 

It has been the most intense fantasy she could remember to date. So very real it seemed, she swore she could still feel the heat of his fingers upon her skin. Shaking her head in an attempt to free her mind from the memory of his kisses, she forced herself to crawl out of bed. Fumbling with her glasses, catching the arms in her riotous curls more than once, she was determined to get on with her Saturday morning. Going through her morning ritual, Abigail tried to push the startlingly vivid memories to the back of her mind. By the time she finally made it downstairs, still in her skull and crossbones pajamas, she wanted to throttle something. Normally she could easily dismiss dreams, this imaginary lover just would not be so easily forgotten. She needed, tea, now. Uncaring for grace, she hurried down the winding stairs to the ground floor. The townhouse was divided into three apartments, the other two were studios in the huge basement and the attic. 

The kitchen, the last room at the back of the house, was a blend of rustic antiques and campy modern gadgets. Dark cherry wood cabinets, an old brick hearth with a bright red antique stove, cast iron cooking tools hung from a heavy rack next to a gleaming refrigerator studded with magnets emblazoned with pirate-isms. Sunlight streamed through ancient paneled windows framed with lacy white curtains. A small backyard with garden full of potted herbs, bright flowers and a tiny patio set could be seen through the windows and open backdoor. An old but cared for radio sat upon a high shelf, the timeless voice of Frankie Valli singing “Rag Doll” drifting through the air. And he was not alone. A woman sang along with him, flitting around the kitchen from stove to pantry, dancing around in a slinky black nightgown. Her long, auburn hair was held back in a loose braid, the sunbeams catching the red and gold highlights. She had yet to notice her audience, instead singing along to the classic song, deftly flipping pancakes. 

Abigail tiptoed into the room, careful not to make the wooden floorboards give away her presence. As the last cake was removed from the skillet, she pounced.

“Good morning!” her arms shot out to wrap tightly around her waist. 

“Oh gods!” The spatula flew through the air, hit a copper pot hanging on the far wall, ricocheted across the room and landed in the sink. 

“Well damn,” Abigail looked into the antique farmhouse sink with a smirk. “Couldn’t do that again if you tried.”

“You scared the life out of me!” Puffed up with indignity, the other woman pushed her glasses back into place.

“I can feel your pulse, so not, I didn’t really,” she grinned. 

“Do you want these pancakes or not?” 

Giggling, Abigail let go and placed a sloppy, wet kiss on her bare shoulder before checking the tea kettle. The water would be boiling any moment now, the shrill whistle heralding the summons to food and that much needed cup of tea. After setting their places and taking her place at the breakfast nook, Abigail watched with anticipation as bowls of fruit, a huge stack of pancakes and a delicate tea pot were placed on the table. 

“After that little stunt you are lucky I’m still feeding you.”

“It’s because you love me, Rose.”

“Indeed.”

Sugar, syrup and cream were passed back and forth until their plates were made up to perfection. In the background, the CD continued to play the greatest hits of the Four Seasons.

“I love you baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby!” Abigail serenaded into her spoon. 

“You’re in a mood,” Rose laughed as the whole song played through and was acted out before her. It was a cheesey, domestic scene if there ever was one. But it did the trick of making Rose forget about the dream, which was quite fine by her. 

“That I am!”

They continued to laugh, eat and sing along to nearly every song until the CD finally ended. Rose stood up, leafing through a binder of albums, calling out titles for approval. Summer always made Rose nostalgic for old music, her parents had played their favorites during her childhood cookouts. After selecting a mixed CD of sixties top forty hits, she exchanged the disks. 

“I had the most unusual dream last night,” she said. 

“Same,” Abigail answered, sipping her steaming cup of English Breakfast tea.

“Feel like sharing or should I go first?” 

Truthfully she did not want the mystery man stuck in her head again, but perhaps hearing the dream of another would work against him. 

“Do tell me of yours first, dear.”

“It was so odd,” she began as she pressed the play button. “I was sitting in a...I’m not quite sure but the room was extremely opulent. There were windows, I could smell the sea just outside. It might have been a house by the ocean but I think it was a cabin, like in a ship. And a huge, four poster bed, all decked up in red curtains.”

Abigail froze but Rose did not seem to notice. 

“And you were there, in the bed I mean. But you weren’t alone. I could see the bed, I was seated in a plush chair with a perfect view of what was going on. There was a man with you, partially hidden in shadow.”

Slowly, Abigail took a sip, trying to calm her quickly fraying nerves.

“You two were…” a deep blush stained Rose’s peachy cheeks, “in the throes of passion. It was...well it was hot beyond all description. But there was something strange about him. One of his hands,” she stopped a moment and appeared to think hard over her next words. “No, not hands. He only had one hand, the other...there was a hook in its place.”

Abigail choked. She sputtered, her cheeks flaming as she coughed the tea out of her lungs. She set her teacup down a little harder than necessary, sloshing tea out onto the table. Rose turned from the CD collection, concern on her face. 

“Are you alright, darling?” she asked, hurrying to Abigail’s side to try to help how she could. 

“No,” Abigail gasped, sucking in air, her face red. After a moment, she quieted enough to say, “Rose, that was my dream too.”

“What?” Rose sank into her chair, “Are you sure?”

Abigail nodded. “Down to the red curtains on his canopy bed and the hook for his hand.”

“Who is he?”

“I wish I knew.”

***

Every other night the dreams would return for them both and each time was something new. Sometimes they were in the luxurious cabin, others in a steamy jungle glade or a bubbling hot spring. What always remained the same though, was the cast of characters. Never would one of them have the pirate just to themselves, they were always together in some scintillating scenario. When they discussed it the following mornings there was never any sense of competition or jealousy, rather they kept a journal of their differing perspectives to compare. However the underlying question of just why they kept having said dreams had yet to be answered. 

“Nothing I have on dream interpretation, symbolism or dream walking describes anything like this,” Rose shut yet another tome from their little library. They sat in the front parlour, not a large room but filled with their combined collections of books. One of the tall cases flanking the fireplace was devoted to their craft, each shelf dedicated to a subject of magical study. There was no division between whose book was whose, they were blended together and ordered by subject and author. At the moment, each woman sat in a plush chair surrounded by piles of discarded research. 

“Instances of dream walking are easy to find, but to do so over and over like this?” Abigail was started to show signs of aggravation. “We really can’t be the only ones this has ever happened to.”

“If we aren’t than whoever else sure didn’t tell anyone.”

“What about archetypes in dreams? I haven’t found anything about freaking pirates yet.” Rose looked around the mess and pulled a deep purple book from the coffee table. Dramatically she cleared her throat before starting to read aloud.

“To see a pirate in your dream signifies that some person or situation is adding chaos to your emotional life. You feel that someone has violated your integrity or creativity. Alternatively, the pirate may symbolize freedom, risk, and adventure. You want to explore new adventures and take riskier ventures. To see a pirate ship in your dream signifies your suppressed desires for freedom and adventure. You want to cut loose and go wild. Alternatively, the dream symbolizes hidden danger or hostility. To dream of a flying pirate ship implies that you are letting your adventurous side guide you and take control. You are living it up!”

There was silence for a moment, then both women burst out into riots of laughter.

“A flying pirate ship?” the younger of the two wiped a tear from her eye. “Who thinks of these things?”

“Someone with a vivid imagination,” the elder reread the entry. “So, if we’re both seeing a pirate then we have some serious trouble coming our way or we’ve become too sedate and need to act on our instincts more.” 

Abigail snickered, the last thing anyone would ever call them was cautious. 

“So we can throw that theory out,” she sighed and dropped the book she held onto the table. “Call me a quitter, but I cannot figure this out. At least tonight is our time off from our gentleman caller, fictitious or not, I need a break from this craziness.” Rose seemed to go sober all the sudden, her smile fading from her lips, her knuckles turning white as her grip on the book tightened. “Honey, what’s wrong?” 

“I...I’m not sure how to bring this up..” Rose bit her lip and looked anywhere but her girlfriend. 

“Sweetie, you’re scaring me,” slowly Abigail crossed the oriental throw rug to kneel before her. “Talk to me, there’s nothing you can’t tell me,” removing the dream book, she took her hands and held tight. 

“This morning...after I woke up the dream was still fresh in my mind,” her voice sounded unsure, so unlike her. “You were still asleep so I went to take a shower before making breakfast and when I looked in the mirror…” she trailed off.

“What happened?” 

“Look.” Rose sat up straight and suddenly pulled her purple tank top over her head and Abigail gasped loudly. There, upon her breasts and waist, were dark bruises that stood out starkly against her creamy skin. Bruises in shape of handprints, but only the left hand, and far too large to belong to either of them. 

“What on earth…” Abigail gently traced each bruise, fascinated and unnerved all at once. 

“They’re his, aren’t they? I knew it as soon as I saw them. How is this even possible?”

“I don’t know…” they looked at one another but could find no words to describe just what was going on. “When is the next full moon?”

“What?”

“For answers, we can use its energy to help us.” 

Rose nodded and searched for her almanac, it was partly hidden under an embroidered pillow. She flipped to the correct month and searched for the current date. “Tomorrow.” 

They stared at one another. 

“If the pattern keeps up, that will be a dream night. It might be risky if we try then.”

“Since when do we care about risks?” Abigail placed a soft kiss on the fingerprints at the swell of Rose’s breast. “Tomorrow, we find our answers.” 

***

James Matthew Hook was a man to be tormented by very little. The Boy, perhaps, an overlarge reptile, even, but never a woman. And certainly not two women. When he dreamed of women, it was often of high society wenches who laughed at his hook or women of ill repute who tried to take his mind off of The Boy with their mouths. Never did a fantasy last beyond the morning sunrise. 

Except for this one.

Or rather, these two sirens who for every other night had taken him into their arms, their musical cries mingling with his rasping groans of pleasure. Long auburn locks and chocolate curls, full breasts and pale skin like cream, hazel and blue eyes. They tormented him with beguiling smiles, tempting sways of wide hips, coquettish kisses, and throaty laughter. He would awake unfulfilled and burning with lust like a bloody rage in his veins, unable to be sated. 

So he abstained from sleep for as long as he could. He would stay awake, ruminating over Pan, for how else was he to keep his thoughts from the beautiful women in his dreams? They were too impossibly perfect to be real. 

He kept himself from sleep as much as he could, dark circles beneath his tired, red eyes, as he sat brooding on his chaise. He forced his thoughts from his nymphs, focusing instead in the Boy and his rage and hatred for the Doodle-Doo Pan. But when his eyes grew too heavy and he inevitably would fall asleep, they were waiting for him. They whispered his name and pressed kisses to his cheeks, parting their legs for him. They did not shrink at the sight of his hook, rather they loved it. More than once he had scratched at them with it and they had only moaned louder. They tangled their fingers into his dark curls, they shared him equally between one another, they took their pleasure with each other. It was a paradise. 

And then he would jerk awake to a hardness between his legs, an empty bottle at hand, and a pounding pain between his temples. This torment was having an adverse effect on his appearance. His eyes were puffy, skin sallow, dark circles darkening with each passing day. He neglected to eat, drinking instead - which made him only clumsier. 

His crew noticed. They approached the bo’sun to ask for a solution to the problem for fear that their captain’s irritation might manifest itself into an iron claw gutting them in boredom. It was with trepidation that Mister Smee approached his captain. 

“Cap’n?”

James Hook was seated at his chaise, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked out the panes of glass at the cabin windows. The sun was in the sky, that’s all that matters. Time never changed. 

“What’s the moon, Mister Smee?”

Caught off-guard by the question, Smee fumbled for a moment before finally stammering out, “F-full, sir.”

“Three weeks,” James sighed to himself, “Three weeks of beautiful agony, delicious torture.”

“Are you alright, Captain?” Smee asked, fidgeting slightly, “You’re getting poetical, sir. The lads are concerned.”

The glare James Hook served to his bo’sun was chilling. “They do not have enough intelligence among them to equal the full range of feelings in a single adult.”

“Feelings, Cap’n?” It was not often the Hook used the word and Smee noticed at once. The Hook scowled a warning, which the bo’sun politely disregarded as he continued to speak. “You’ve not been sleeping, Captain. Does something trouble you?”

“I dare not,” James hissed, his torso deflating as the breath left him. “I dare not sleep. I dare not shut my eyes for fear that they will return.”

“They, Cap’n?”

“Yes, bully, they! The women who fill my dreams and torment my every waking moment by their mere absence!” The fingers of his good hand pulled through his tangled mane, setting the curls even more awry, “They must be evil spirits which Pan has sent upon me. I can think of nothing else! They cannot exist, they are more devil seductresses than mortal, and see how they have destroyed me? This is the Boy’s work, I know it.”

“Dreams are supposed to be nice things, Cap’n,” Smee said, adjusting his shirt over his belly, “Pleasant fantasies to look forward to every night, something to take your mind off of things, sir.”

But James did not hear him. “For nigh three weeks they have plagued my every thought...I will not sleep tonight. The light of the full moon will keep me awake. I will not succumb to their pleasures again…”

Smee opened his mouth to comfort his captain when the echo of a cry reached their ears from above deck. 

“Man overboard!” 

***

Silver candles shone brightly in the night. Their little patio had a dining set, wrought metal painted black and a canopy with gauzy white curtains. The table was covered with a black velvet cloth and laden with magical tools. Between the roof tops of the neighborhood the full moon rose, its shimmering beams almost drowned out by the street lights. Summer in the city was always a warm affair, at least there was a little breeze. Night blooming jasmine and evening primrose opened their delicate petals to the moonbeams, their sweet scents mixing with the heady clouds of sandalwood incense. Rose was slipping a dagger back into its sheath, having drawn a circle of protection around them. Abigail was sprinkling water from a glass urn, blessed under another full moon, upon the altar as a blessing. And the stage was set. 

“This circle is cast, none of ill intent may enter,” they said together. 

Between the two silver tapers was a large piece of polished onyx, balanced on a wooden platform to stand upright. It was their scrying mirror, this was how they would find their answers. 

They took turns calling on the powers of the elements to guide them, then the deities of the full moon to be present at their work. Around them, the breeze slowly halted.

Both took in their hands a piece of rough hewn amethyst, to channel the energies of dreams and ground them in their intent. The candles sputtered, the reflection of the flames danced in the obsidian mirror. 

“Give us sight, give us clarity, give us reason,” they chanted. 

“Bring to light the meaning of our dreams.” Rose spoke as she lit one final candle, a white pillar inscribed with symbols.

“Lead us down the path to the answers we seek.” Abigail brought the mirror closer to the edge of the table. 

They looked down into the abyss, their own reflections whipped and warped with the flickering light. And then their eyes began to glaze over, their breathing slowed as they concentrated upon the gleaming surface. Around them, the world seemed to fall away, all the noise of the congested city turned into a muted hum unworthy of notice. In their hands, the crystals seemed to grow warm. They stared into the surface of the mirror with an intent that would have made any spectator shiver to behold. A sudden gust of wind blew out all but the white candle, if anything the flame burned even brighter. As dripping wax melted down the curved sides, obscuring the carven sigils, the two women began their chant in voices so low that a whisper would seem a roar. 

“Lead us, show us, by the light of the moon guide us.”

They were both very much in a trance by this time. Neither noticed when the light of the full moon fell upon the skyring mirror at last, how for a moment the surface flashed pure silver before returning to pitch. Nor did they see how their reflections vanished as well, leaving a glossy pane of gleaming stone. A star twinkled high above them, second from the moon off in the west. Still they looked on, leaning towards the onyx ever so slightly. 

“Lead us, show us, by the light of moon guide us.” 

White wax ran over the altar cloth, seeping forward inch by inch, cooling into a pale river across the table. It crept closer to where a pointed edge of the mirror just barely touched the velvet covering. The women knelt as one, gazing upon the black looking glass as though something upon it had them entranced. Still the wax, from its pillar font decorated with symbols for dreams and desires, flowed ever closer. 

“I...see waves…” Rose clutched her amethyst tighter, the jagged edges almost cutting her palm.

“And...an island too,” Abigail leaned in until her nose might have touched the mirror.

Around them the breeze finally returned, blowing their flimsy summer dresses around them, their loose hair nearly caught the candle’s flame. Rose wrapped her free arm around Abigail’s shoulders as she too inched closer. They never saw the white wax finally finally reach the mirror’s edge, how at the moment of contact a gleam of pure light shot over the dark crystal. All they could comprehend was a sudden, powerful gust of wind propelled them forward. Before them was not their patio table with its candles and tools, but an inky black abyss cold as ice. They fell, screaming, into the void. 

***

“Can I not have a single moment of peace?” Hook roared. Smee scurried back as he sprung up from the chaise. Muffled but still loud enough to test him were the hurrying footsteps and shouting of his crew. “To the main deck, now!” He did not even bother to dress, too consumed with fury, charging out of the cabin in naught but his breeches and bannion. The moon shone brightly in the twilight sky, a million stars overhead gleamed like diamonds. Below them the sea was calm, easy to spot any obstruction in the water. A bevvy of sailors were clamoring over the starboard side, they seemed to be pulling at a rope which he surmised must lead to the fool who fell over.

Several of the men were fairly shoving their fellows to the floor trying to get closer. Puzzled though still furious, Hook strode quickly across the deck.

“What is going on here?” His men scattered around him like frightened animals, this only helped minimally to ease his rage.

“Saw somethin’ in the water, Cap’n,” one of the dogs exclaimed. 

“That is generally the meaning of ‘man overboard’,” he snarled. “So what then could have them acting like vultures at the feast?” 

An indignant shriek sounded from the center of the commotion. A few of the men actually laughed and pressed in closer. But Hook found himself in shock, that was certainly not the voice of a man. 

“Aside you scugs!” They parted for him like the Red Sea, sudden fear clouding their faces rather than the excitement of moments ago. He marched forward, hook at the ready for whatever may await him.

Two figures huddled against the rail, soaked and clinging to one another. They wore scandalously short dresses that barely fell to their knees, it did not help that they now clung to their every curve thanks to their dip in a sea. Bare arms and legs, plunging necklines that revealed generous bosom, no wonder the men were salivating like rabid dogs.

“Found them in the water, sir,” Cecco came forward. “Thought they were mermaids at first,” the Italian chuckled, “truth is far better though.” He reached out to grab one of the women at her shoulder but screeched like a child when the other caught his hand and bent his fingers painfully back.

“Don’t you touch her!”

James felt his heart cease beating. He knew that voice.

“Try to touch me again and your fingers will be far from the last thing you loose!”

Slowly, he looked from one woman to the other. They had yet to see him. 

One with long, pin straight auburn hair. The other with sable curls. Feisty and beautiful, though very much afraid he could tell but they hide their fright well. Even in the dim light of the moon, stars, and lanterns he could see the fire in their eyes, hazel flecked with gold and blue as pale as arctic ice. 

“ _Troia,_ ” Cecco snarled as his hand reached for his cutlass. 

“Mr. Cecco, a little restraint,” Hook hissed, barely able to keep control of his wits. He would not lose his composure in front of his men, no matter the circumstances. But his eyes never left the two shivering women, his gaze following their every move as they tried to cover one another from the leering eyes of the crew. 

And then they looked at him. 

Shock, awe, and even a small degree of lust flashed across their fair faces. Dark curls dripped onto soaked fabric clinging to drenched skin. Auburn sheets of hair were pulled aside by slender fingers. They stared at him. They were so beautiful, even as their eyes widened and lips parted. Thier hands tightened as they gripped each other, a small detail but he noticed it nonetheless. It took some skill but he managed to hide those same reactions behind a carefully placed mask. He could scarce believe the sight before him, his own sirens standing not six feet from him. He reminded himself that he was the fearsome captain of a pirate crew, that he would not show any weakness before two women. Not even women such as these. 

“You…” the dark haired temptress breathed in shock. Disbelief shone bright on the face of the hazel eyed siren as she clung to her lover.

“You’re real.”


	2. Courtesies Exchanged

Sunset was brilliant in Neverland, the orange glow would combine into a splendid purple as night overcame one half of the sky. Day and evening would share the the celestial canvas by means of a magic unknown to the Mainland. He had been contemplating the setting sun just before his world had turned upside down. It had been on the nocturnal side of the sea that his troubles had arrived. He turned his discerning eye to them now. The women sat, shivering in his cabin, huddled together on his chaise, and Hook was left reeling with the realization that they were real and that they were before his very eyes. He was at a loss for what to do. He knew what he _wanted_ to do. He knew what his body was telling him to do as he looked upon their damp curls and nipples peaked through their flimsy dresses which clung to their curves. But his mind was thrown into chaos, cluttered with questions that needed answers. 

After their sudden gasp validating the reality of his existence, he had swept them from the deck as quick as he could to spare them from the leering of his crew who had been creeping closer to the women the longer they stood clinging to each other. He had brought them to his cabin, out of the breeze chilling their skin, and into a more private setting where he could begin to make sense of what he was seeing. 

Some part of him was telling him that this was just another dream - albeit much more detailed and realistic than any before. But they were there dripping onto his rug to he was forced to concede the possibility that they were, indeed, very real. He was half tempted to reach out and touch them, to verify that their warm flesh was corporal and not some figment of his sleep-deprived mind. They looked up at him, still with those expressions of shock and awe on their faces and he cleared his throat, reminding himself that he was captain of the ship and that they were going to answer for what had happened. 

“What are you?”

“Cold,” the auburn-haired one snapped at once. The one with shoulder length dark curls was busy trying to cover her nipples with her hand to agree but James remembered some semblance of his manners. He reached for a thick blanket and handed it off to the woman with the chestnut tresses. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and around the frame of the woman shivering beside her and they cuddled together under the blanket. 

“I’ll ask again,” he said, leaning his hip back against the edge of his desk and looking down at them, “What are you?”

“Women,” the dark-haired one said with a sharp bite to her voice, “Surely you’ve seen one before?”

Taken aback by the cheek she gave him so easily, even when he was attempting to be his most imposing, James managed a scowl. “Are you succubi? Nymphs? Sirens? Demons? Faeries?”

“Certainly not!” the hazel-eyed one said as though affronted. The shorter of the two, she was resting her auburn head against the shoulder of the pale, dark-haired woman beside her. Their arms were entwined under the blanket and their skin was beginning to dry. 

“Enchantresses?” He tried again, “Sorceresses? Witches?”

“That’s more like it.” The blue eyes of the dark-haired witch sparkled a bit with amusement at how he was floundering even as she held her companion to her breast. 

“Witches, then,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Sorceresses who send dreams to torment mortal men…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the auburn-haired witch sat up, “Are you accusing _us_ of the dreams?”

“You also had dreams?” James questioned, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. 

“Yes,” the dark-haired witch said, pulling the blanket over her breasts, unable to quite hide the way her cheeks had darkened at the mention of the dreams. “We’ve had them for three weeks.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes. And I assure you, it was not our doing.”

“If anything we’ve been trying to find the source of the dreams.”

The whole situation confounded him, and he began to pace. On the surface, it would seem he was the luckiest man who ever lived. Two beautiful women had, literally, fallen into his lap. Women he knew well, intimately, had known in the Biblical sense. What had been ephemeral and sweet, though a tortuous kind of sweet, was now very much in the world of reality. What did one do in an event such as this? 

“We were conducting a spell to give us answers,” he turned to find hazel eyes staring back at him as she tried to explain. “A vision of the sea had just come forward when suddenly there was darkness and cold. And then we were falling.”

“One long drop into the sea and then there are perverted pirates everywhere,” the blue eyed witch grumbled. 

“Then how would you explain all three of us sharing the same...provocative dreams?”

“I’m pretty sure we already made it clear that we don’t know that,” cold, pale eyes glared at him and he clenched his fist.

“All we want right now is to go home.”

Leave? Not a chance in any of the seven levels of hell.

“And give up the best chance you have to find the answers you seek?”

The witches looked at one another.

“Oh he’s exactly the same as in the dreams,” the taller one chuckled.

“Silver tongued and slick,” the other shook her head. 

Hook ignored the quip and finally ceased his pacing. Seated close, clasping their hands, running fingers gently over slender wrists in comfort, they never broke physical contact. They were smirking at each other, but spoke not a word, speaking only with their eyes in the manner of lovers. In their dreams he had watched them tease and please each other, that alone was enough to heat his blood. But their bond obviously went far deeper than merely satisfying the need for carnal pleasure. He was no stranger to such affairs, and certainly was never one to judge another for indulging their desires, but never had he found himself…..caught between such a couple. 

They were squirming on the chaise, trying to better cover themselves with the blanket. It had fallen from the shoulders of the long haired witch, revealing the low cut neckline of her indecently thin dress. The swell of her bosom threatened to tumble from the bodice, as she moved the ties at the back of her neck slipped to reveal the side of one breast. His breath caught in his throat upon seeing the pale flesh interrupted with dark purple bruises that formed in the shape of fingers. 

Without thinking, he found himself moving forward. His hand fit perfectly to the bruises, as right they should as he was the one who left them there.

A sharp pain shot up his arm. He hissed, pulled his hand back against his chest and glared at the women. They actually had the audacity to slap him!

“Excuse you!” the long haired wench spat. “No one said you could start pawing at me!”

“Hands off, this isn’t dreamland anymore!” 

“No,” Hook murmured, “Indeed, it isn’t. Why do you have bruises, then?”

“I...don’t know,” the marked woman said hesitantly, glancing at the cautious face of her lover, “We were trying to find our answers when…”

“When we landed in the ocean and, hence, are _still_ wet,” the dark-haired vixen snapped. Her riotous mane, as it dripped slowly dry, was curling to rival his and his forget-me-not eyes raked over her damp body. She drew away from his gaze, both of them remembering how his touch had felt on her breast, how his mouth felt upon her nipple as they had joined together in their dreams. “Where even are we?” 

“You do not know?” Hook’s brow raised, bemused. 

“Did you hear the bit earlier about falling through the abyss?” Blue eyes clashed with blue eyes. This one was fierce and vocal with her saucy tongue. The other was also fiery but it was a slower, smouldering kind of burn. More patient than the sharp sparks of the first. 

“I did,” he said, his smooth voice elongating his words with exaggerated patience. “But, my dears, you are in Neverland.”

“Neverland,” the auburn-haired woman gaped. “Neverland?”

“Specifically, _The Jolly Roger_ afloat on the Never Sea,” Hook clarified unessesarily, toying idly with his hook as he surveyed them. 

“But the Neverland is just a myth,” the long-haired witch said. Something had shifted in her eyes, something analytical and intelligent. She wore the face of a scholar being presented with a new tome of information. “Only used in fairy-tales and old wives’ tales to explain away the disappearances of children and sailors at sea…”

She trailed off, an odd expression on her face as she looked up at him again. This time when she looked over his body, it was not with lust or with interest, but with careful examination. Her hazel eyes took in every detail of his face, his clothing, his hair, his stance. Nothing escaped her notice and it was only because he was returning her determined stare that he saw the first signs of shock in her eyes. They widened, her face paled ever so slightly, and her mouth fell open as she gasped, “James Matthew Eliott! Baron Heathfield! Boatswain to Blackbeard! Oh gods….”

His handsome face instantly seemed carved of stone. He froze, masking his surprise and panic. How did she know? They had never even learned one another’s names in their dreams, so how the hell did she know his family name let alone his long abandoned title?

“Honey?” the other witch appeared to be just as confounded as he. “This isn’t the time to present your thesis.”

“I know this ship, I’ve been studying it for years! _The Jolly Roger_ wasn’t just a generic symbol, but a brig that vanished along with its famous captain. And I know his face,” she pointed at him almost accusingly. “It was always somewhat dark in the dreams, and the missing hand threw me off but I know him. I’ve been looking at his portrait since I started grad school. James Eliott was the wayward noble who commanded a pirate ship only to disappear suddenly while escaping the law in the northern Caribbean. If I’m wrong tell me so.” Her bright eyes stared into his own, not a trace of fear or uncertainty to be found in her determined gaze. He had to admit to himself that he was impressed, few could manage such a feat and usually fell into pitiful pleas for mercy with a single glare from him. 

“Even if you were, that is hardly the matter at hand. How would any of your supposed studies help us in discovering the whys and hows of these shared dreams?”

“As much as I hate to say it, he has a point.”

“Abigail! Don’t side with him! Any information is better than none.”

Finally, he had a name to put to one of faces which haunted him.

“You just gave him my name!”

“Oh like he wasn’t going to find out anyway!”

They were oddly endearing as they argued. 

“Damn it, Rose!”

Ah, and now the second, such a stroke of luck he was having. Abigail and Rose, lovely names to be sure, they matched well with the beauties who bore them. 

“Ladies, please, we have much to talk about and who knows how much time to do so.” Perhaps another tactic was necessary, to both calm their feud and draw them away from digging too deep into his past. “You are not quite completely dry, it would not take long to light a brazier so that you can warm yourselves.” Both women looked up at him suspiciously. Good. It would be a shame if they turned out too gullible or naive.

“Sudden change of atmosphere,” Abigail muttered but did not turn down his gracious offer. Rose said nothing, still glaring at him defiantly though she did give a quick nod and he called for Smee. The loyal bosun scurried in, curiosity clear on his aged face. 

“Aye, captain?”

“Fetch hot coals for the brazier, and bring something hot to eat for our guests as well.”

“Right away, sir.” After the door has shut behind the Irishman, Hook returned his attention to the women. 

“I do apologize for not having something, more appropriate, for you to change in to. Those wet clothes cannot be comfortable.”

“Somehow I doubt removing our clothes around you is the wisest course of action right now,” Rose said, a little coyly. There was the spark that drew him in like a moth to the flame. The argument over his true identity was successfully pushed to the wayside, leaving in its place something more akin to the temptresses he had known in his nightly fantasies. 

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” the look she sent him was positively smoldering. Meanwhile Abigail was staring at them both as though they both had sprouted a third arm.

“Really?” Abigail’s brows were lifted with incredulity, “You’re flirting _now?_ There is a time and place! Preferably once we have a better understanding of what the _fuck_ is happening!”

James was slightly uncomfortable with how arousing the profanity was as it fell from her pretty lips.

Rose took her lover’s hand in her own and whispered something he could not detect in her ear. Abigail settled somewhat and the two shared another knowing glance. A soft knock at the door echoed throughout the cabin, he called for the person to enter. Smee hurried in with a warming tray of piping hot coals. Two small copper braziers were filled and the sorceresses happily partook of their warmth. 

“You said we have much to speak of,” Abigail looked up from under long curling lashes.

“Indeed.” He turned to the dining table, uncorking a bottle of madeira and pouring a liberal serving into a nautilus cup. The sweet burn brought him back to earth, as it were. Perhaps alcohol was the last thing he should have been imbibing after neigh a month of turning to the bottle rather than risk falling asleep. But the sources of his sleepless nights were not ten feet from him now, so he could indulge without a guilty conscious. Not that he would have ever felt so to begin with but that was neither here nor there.

“I would say we should begin with introductions but that seems to have already happened,” Rose said, looking at him over the frames of her spectacles. Impertinent little thing. He found he liked the spunk though.

“Never let it be said that I have forgotten my manners,” he chided and set the empty chalice down. “Captain James Hook, at your service.” It was with great and barely contained relish that he bowed and took the hand of the russet haired beauty and kissed her soft skin. The flush that flooded her cheeks made her namesake oh so appropriate. He gave the same sweet greeting to the other, though her pale face did not turn pink. However her bright eyes did darken ever so slightly, much to his delight.

“Rose Belchere.”

“Abigail Ó Rinn-Sheehy.”

“A French maid and an Irish wench,” the fallen Englishman growled. “The Fates have surely been cruel to me.”

“Cruel, sir?” The Irish witch fairly sparkled with innocence, “We have yet to do anything untoward.”

“And there are only two of us, Captain,” the Frenchwoman smiled.

“Heaven forbid there be three.” He filled and drained his goblet again. His eyes narrowed as they flicked between the women, contemplating. “Your surnames are foreign and yet you do not speak with any base accents of your countries. How?”

“Our family lines may be from France and Ireland,” Rose began, plaiting her drying hair over her shoulder. “But we ourselves are from America.”

“As in…” he paused, a furrow of concentration appearing between his brows. “The Colonies?”

“We haven’t been colonies for over 200 years.” Abigail said, trying in vain to control the dark curls falling into her eyes, “We’ve been independent since 1776.”

“I beg your pardon?” he put his goblet down a little too hard on the table. 

“Technically, the War of American Independence was over in 1781 at the Battle of Yorktown,” Rose said before gripping Abigail’s arm, “Don’t.”

“But-” Abigail began, blue alight with excitement, “The world turned upside down!”

“No singing,” Rose said sternly, “No musicals.”

Abigail wilted slightly. James was utterly nonplussed. 

“1781,” he said softly, looking a little pale. 

“Fifty-six years after your disappearance,” Rose said knowingly. He eased himself into the chair. 

“What year is it now, where you’re from?” He asked, though his face and tone said that he did not want to know. 

“2016,” Abigail whispered. 

He reached for the bottle. 

“Rose, I think he’s trying to drown himself.”

Rose was busy doing arithmetic in her head, counting on her fingers. “Since you were born in October of 1685….and we’re now in 2016….that would make you...well let’s see here….Three hundred and thirty-one?” She looked up, “Is that right?”

The mighty and fearsome Captain James Hook, overcome with exhaustion, shock, and inebriation, fainted. 

He hit the floor with a thump and the women looked at each other, completely taken aback.

“Was it something I said?” Rose asked in concern. Abigail shrugged carelessly.

“And they say women are sensitive about their age.”


	3. Moments of Reflection

James Hook blinked blearily awake. He was lying on his back, staring up at the crimson canopy of his grand four-poster. Muted feminine voices reached his ears and he squeezed his eyes shut with a groan. They were still here. More importantly, it had not been a dream or a hallucination. They were real and they were in his cabin. 

“How did I get here?”

The women, sitting at his table and picking at the food set before them, looked up. 

“He’s awake!”

Rose nodded as she took another bite of the steaming lobster. 

His bo’sun toddled over to where Hook still lay on his bed, tsking, “Now, Captain, you gave the ladies quite a fright when you fell over like that. They had to call Mister Starkey and I in to carry you to your bed.”

“How considerate of them.”

“Cap’n, you don’t look at all yourself. Should I get you something? Something to eat to get the colour back into your face?”

“Rum.”

“Cap’n, I don’t think that -”

“ _Rum._ ”

“Aye, sir.”

The bo’sun ran to fetch the bottle of rum and the captain swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up with a scowl. 

“Somehow I don’t think more alcohol will make things any better,” Rose said to her lover, ignoring him entirely and soaking another morsel of crustacean into a bubbling vat of butter. 

“Cap’n’s orders, Miss,” Smee answered as he hurried back with the aforementioned spirit from the liquor cabinet. 

“That’s not going to help,” Rose stood gracefully and snatched the bottle right out of the Irishman’s hand in one elegant motion. “A little more alcohol to cure hangover does work, just not like that. Would you be a dear and fetch me some gin, lemon juice, sugar, an egg and some vinegar?”

“That sounds atrocious,” Abigail’s nose wrinkled. 

“Hair of the dog isn’t supposed to taste good but it does the trick.”

The bo’sun glanced back at his captain for permission to follow the witch’s orders. The captain grunted and waved his hook in gracious assent and Smee trundled away, closing the cabin door softly behind him. James surveyed the women nibbling at the food spread across the table. Rose had abandoned the lobster and began tasting a baked sweet potato. Abigail had swiped the bottle of rum from Rose’s hand and took a swig from it as she picked through a plate of apples baked in spiced wine. 

“How long have you been falling into your cups?” Rose sipped from a crystal goblet, eyeing him over the gilded rim. 

“Long enough, Miss Belchere,” he said sourly. It was too much trouble to stand, he knew his limits and attempting to rise to his feet would only result in another humiliating plummet to the floor. 

“Would we have anything to do with that?” Abigail took her pleasant time tasting a slice of apple, savoring the taste, full lips wrapped around the succulent fruit. Biting his tongue, breathing hard through his nose, James looked anywhere else. 

“And if you did?”

“A point of pride to us both.”

Any further conversation, if it could be called that, was put to an end by the return of Mr. Smee. He juggled the requested items in his arms, and would have dropped several had Rose not sprung from her seat to assist him. Hook watched the courtesy with an appraising eye. Together they cleared a space at the head of the table, his place, carefully setting down each ingredient in the order it was to be used. Slowly, his poor mind having been dulled by imbibing too much, he came to realize that beyond their preferences in bed he knew naught else about these women. Rose it seemed had a kind streak to her. Abigail meanwhile seemed to delight in provoking his ire for amusement. 

“I don’t seem to remember this recipe,” the bo’sun commented at the witch reached for the nearest glass. 

“There are many variations to hangover cures,” she explained, mixing each of the liquids, carefully judging the measurements by eye. “But I’ve found this one worked particularly well after a long night of dancing that ended with me quite ill the following morning,” the egg was cracked and the white plopped with a splash into the cure. He winced, not looking at all forward to swallowing raw egg.

“I remember that night,” Abigail looked over the selections with a spark of recognition. She seemed to have a sweet tooth, reaching for a slice of fig tart before continuing to speak. “You had accepted one too many drinks from that handsome Greek soccer player. You two were getting rather frisky when-”

“Is that damned cure ready yet?”

He had heard enough of that. Though they were far from untouched by the hands of men, or women for that matter, he did not want to imagine either of them flaunting their wiles to another. The sudden flare of jealousy gave him pause and left him feeling uncomfortable.

“Actually, yes.” Rose walked toward him, glass in hand and he tried not to notice how the sway of her hips made the short skirt flutter around her long, bare legs. “It’s best to drink as quickly as possible, if you taste it you might not get it down.”

“Worry not over that, my dear.” Taking the goblet in as steady a hand as he could, he inclined his head in small thanks. She refused to return to her meal until he had drank the whole bitter concoction. “Your lover was correct, that was atrocious.”

“Things that are good for us usually are,” she sat herself back down, “especially of the medicinal kind.”

“And how long until your medicine begins working?”

“Patience is a virtue. I suggest you not push yourself, if you have been drinking non stop for days then rest is your best hope for recovery.”

“Why didn’t you go into nursing?” Abigail had turned her attention to a platter of fried plantains now, having not even turned her head to his predicament.

“Because history is infinitely more interesting than reading off prescriptions all day long and cleaning up after patients. Give me books over humans any day.” 

“Speaking of…” Abigail finally glanced away from the food before her to look at the books lining the shelves under the expansive windows. She pushed herself to her feet and started across the cabin. 

What in Lucifer’s name was the wench up to now?

“You have a leather-bound copy of the First Folio?” The dark-haired witch sounded as though she would swoon. 

“Of course,” he sniffed, finally finding his feet with the air of the aristocracy, as though to say that anyone who did not have a copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio was beneath him. 

“Oh, do that monologue I like,” Rose grinned over at her lover between sips of wine. 

“Which one?” Abigail laughed back at her, her fingers lovingly stroking the embossed leather. 

“Katherina, of course!” Rose sat back expectantly. 

James almost scoffed. Requesting a monologue? It would take painfully long for the other woman to find the correct page. How dreadfully dull. 

“No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd to give my hand, oppos'd against my heart, unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen, who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.” Abigail began at once, bending over to peruse the other books he had collected along his shelf. His forget-me-not eyes widened in surprise and he only barely stopped himself from letting his mouth fall open. “I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; And, to be noted for a merry man, he'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, make friends invited, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd.” Abigail feigned affront at the lord described in the monologue, grey-blue eyes sparkling with amusement as she continued, “Now must the world point at poor Katherine, and say 'Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife, if it would please him come and marry her!'”

Rose applauded appropriately and Abigail dropped an flouncing curtsy before reaching for another book. 

“And Dante’s _Inferno!_ ” She exclaimed in delight, flipping through the pages idly and reciting, “ _Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura!_ ” 

James gaped. Rose giggled at the sight of her lover, framed by the moonlight through the panes of glass of his cabin windows, caressing the old books with adoration and the fearsome pirate captain staring at her as though she were the Muse Calliope herself. 

“She’s such a talented actor,” Rose said, preening with pride over her beloved. 

“Oh hush,” Abigail said, cheeks turning a charming shade of pink. 

“You are!” Rose insisted before turning back to the pirate, “You know, when she did _Much Ado About Nothing_ , the reviewers couldn’t get enough of her. Said she was the wittiest Beatrice to grace the stage. They said Beatrice’s wit positively sparkled in her verbal sparring with Benedict. I was so proud. And don’t even get me started on her Titania. She was a force of nature.”

Abigail had the grace to blush. 

“She had movie producers scouting her too,” Rose bragged. 

“Rose,” Abigail complained.

“What is a movie?”

The women looked at him. 

“That’s right, he doesn’t know,” Abigail said. “Rose, how do we explain?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You know how your gramophone plays music that’s been recorded onto the record?” Abigail said, pointing to where the gramophone sat in the corner, “It’s like that, but a play is recorded and then projected onto a screen for people to watch.”

His brow furrowed but he accepted it without question. 

“Is being an actor a respectable profession in your world?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Abigail laughed wryly. 

“So you’re an actor,” he said before his eyes moved to Rose, “What are you?”

“Novelist,” Rose said casually, “And grad student.”

“Studying me.”

“Studying you,” Rose grinned. 

“Oh she can go on for hours and hours about the famous James Matthew Eliott,” Abigail said, coming behind Rose’s chair and striking a heroic pose, “The famous baron turned brigand! Nobleman gone rogue pirate! Terrorizing the Spanish Main before vanishing without a trace through the Bermuda Triangle!” Abigail dropped into the chair next to Rose’s and reached for a green apple, “She knows everything about you. In fact…” here she paused, a wicked smile spreading across her lips as she pointed at the pirate, “She probably knows more about you than you do.”

“Comforting thought.” He said sourly, reaching for a slice of bread. 

“Somehow I doubt the good captain wants to hear his life story as told by a student,” Rose sipped her wine. “Though if I’m curious about anything, it would be how he came by us to begin with. If his dreams were any different from our own.”

“An excellent point,” Abigail tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and bit into her apple with a crunch. “Answers must be had.” The pair of them looked like some kind of pretty version of the Inquisition, only far more terrifying. 

“What sort of answers do you seek?” He took a seat at the head of the table, not willing to sacrifice the image of control no matter how little he did possess at the moment. Damned drink always did take his wits, he should have known better. 

“Our dreams began exactly three weeks ago, to the day.” Rose turned serious, though he could not help but notice how the candle light turned her peachy skin a glowing gold. "Was it the same for you?”

“Three weeks to the day, you say? Yes, that does correlate with my own.” 

“And the first instance began…” the long haired witched took a moment to study his cabin. That appraising, scholarly look returned to her bright eyes. “Here, I’m sure it was here, though it was much darker in the dream.”

“I don’t recall much of the scenery,” Abigail commented nonchalantly. But he could easily spy the smirk she was hiding behind her apple.

“Now you’re the one flirting at the the worst time,” her lover scolded her. But her only response was an innocent grin and a shrug of pale, bare shoulders. Really they needed to have some decency to their apparel, the men of their time must be caught in a constant state of distraction. 

“And the second, which occurred two days later, was set in some kind of hot spring?”

“There are such springs on the eastern half of the island,” he stated. “For all the times we have met before, it has always been in Neverland, never in your world. Why is that, do you think?” 

“Could be that there is simply more magic here,” hazel eyes sparkled with the pursuit of knowledge. “Compared to home, this place is just teeming with it, I felt it soon after calming down after our arrival.”

“This is true,” he found himself the recipient of the keen blue gaze which might have left lesser men shaking with nerves. “What sort of place is Neverland, captain?”

“Other than a hell disguised as paradise?” He growled and began to aggressively butter his bread. “Tis a world populated with magical beasts who would see me dead faster than the crow flies and mortals not much quicker than that.”

“Magical beasts?” Both women leaned in closer, their interest clearly peaked. Well if he might catch their attention in some manner other than bedroom play he was willing to entertain them, perhaps it would curry to his favor later on. 

“Aye, from the devil-fish in the sea to the winged sprites amongst the trees,” he explained. “Tarry too closely to the water’s edge and a pretty face will you sweetly sing you to your death. And only a chosen few are permitted to wander into the heart of the jungle, where the the lights flying about your head are anything but the usual fireflies.”

“Mermaids?”

“Fairies?”

The excited voices, the wide eyes and barely restrained smiles told him that he had said the correct thing in describing Neverland’s native fauna. Had he not known the women already, for all that he did know remained on the carnal spectrum, he might have seen them as innocents for their reactions. 

“Indeed, neither if which is overly fond of me.”

“But they do exist? Would be we able to see them for ourselves?” Rose leaned ever closer, Abigail gripping her shoulder tight. 

“Should you stay I am sure such a meeting would eventually take place.” He felt his sense slowly returning to him, his skill with turning a conversation to his own ends just within his grasp once more. At some later point in time he would have to thank the witch for brewing up her cure.

“And what mortals did you speak of?” Abigail asked. 

“A tribe of Indians makes their camp on a peninsula to the far west,” when his stomach no longer rolled at the mere thought of food he finally began to eat. “They are seemingly always at war with either my crew or the only other faction of humans on the island.”

“And who would that be?” Rose leaned her chin on folded hands.

“Another tribe, though far more savage,” he took his frustration of just thinking of his foes out on a slice of tart. “Not an adult amongst them, all orphaned boys come to Neverland so that they might never have to grow up.”

“People don’t grow old here?” The curly haired witch tilted her head in confusion, one spiraling lock slipping across her pale cheek. 

“Tis a complicated matter better suited when I am not so hampered by drink. But no, the children fear aging and run away. Their leader steals them away from the Mainland, your world and time, and brings them here.”

“ _Lord of the Flies_ ,” Abigail muttered under her breath. Another reference he had no clue of, but he brushed it off anyway. 

“Who is their leader?” His fist clenched around the table’s edge, his knuckles turning nearly as white as the cloth covering the heavy wood. If the witches noticed they gave no sign of it but somehow he managed to answer their innocent inquiry.

“A devil with a cherub’s face,” he growled. “Who goes about in the guise of a child and wreaks havoc as only the spawn of demons can. An imp who calls himself Peter Pan.” Across the faces of the sorceresses came a curious expression. They did not seem overly horrified at the picture he painted, nor did they appear shocked at the notion of demon child terrorizing the island.

“.....Peter Pan?” Abigail said slowly. The tone in her voice was incredulous, as though she could not fully comprehend what he had said. 

“Is the alliteration of the name confusing you?”

“Nothing so obtuse,” she sank back in her chair. She sat there, her fingers fidgeting. She hummed a melody under her breath, a dubious smile on her lips, spreading into a genuine one as she giggled to herself. James scowled and Rose leaned in to touch her lover’s hand. 

“Abigail?” She asked quietly. The dark-haired witch looked up, her eyes sparkling.

“Conceited?” She whispered, shaking with laughter, “Not me! It’s just that I am what I am! And I’m me!”

“What are you muttering about, woman?” James demanded, frown darkening his voice.

Abigail’s blue eyes shifted to him and she laughed, “I’ve got a crow! I’m just the cleverest fellow ‘twas ever my fortune to know! I taught a trick to my shadow to stick to the tip of my toe! I’ve got a crow!” 

The pirate turned to the auburn-haired witch, “What is she babbling about?”

Rose, on the other hand, was staring at her lover with a sudden understanding breaking across her face. “Yes! Abigail, your damned musical brain is brilliant! Of course! Peter Pan!”

“You know of him?” The pirate barely resisted curling his lip. 

“We know some version of him,” Rose explained, Abigail too busy giggling and staring at James - mind filled with images of the musical she knew. “A play written in 1904 is about him….and...about you, or a fantastical version of you. Captain Hook. It’s no more than a fairy story, combining the legend of the Neverland and the idea of an ever-young child, played for the entertainment of families. We never thought…”

“Never thought it was real.” Hook finished, forget-me-not-eyes narrowing. 

“Did it all really happen?” Abigail finally was able to ask, “The crocodile and the Wendy-Lady and the skirmish on Marooner’s Rock when he called you a codfish?”

“Did he really saw off my hand and force me to take up this hook?” The captain snapped icily, brandishing the claw in question. “Yes, it happened, woman. And I assure you, it was no _fairy story._ I suppose I am the villain of the tale? After all, no little children love me.”

“No, that wasn’t what...” Rose began.

“I didn’t mean…” Abigail started. 

He held up his hook and they subsided into silence. 

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet, “You must be tired from your ordeal. I will find some space for you to sleep tonight.”

The women followed him obediently, clinging to each other as they stepped out onto the deck. The captain bellowed for his bo’sun and the Irishman appeared almost at once, bowing courteously to the ladies. 

“Mister Smee, instruct Mister Starkey that he is to vacate his cabin at once. First Mate is to bunk with the Quartermaster until further notice.”

“Aye, Captain,” Smee glanced quickly at the witches, “Should I also freshen the place up if it is to serve for the ladies? In its current state, sir, I doubt it’s suitable for lady-folk.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you think best,” Hook waved the bo’sun away. “You’ll have no objections to sleeping together, I trust?”

They tightened their grips on each other. 

“I thought not,” Hook muttered. He gestured to the rest of the open deck and they followed him. “Present yourselves, you dogs!”

His crew assembled themselves in a haphazard clump. The women eyed them warily and the pirates eyed them back with a different kind of interest. 

“Brutes,” their captain announced, “these women will remain upon this ship indefinitely as my guests. You are to treat them with respect and all according courtesy.”

The crewmen grumbled to themselves, whispering to each other. A couple cast scorching looks to the women - whether of lust or dislike, no one knew. One of the men stepped forward and James instantly scowled. 

“One woman aboard a ship is bad enough luck,” the pirate said with false bravado, “But two, Captain? We’ll be cursed through the next lifetime. Cast them back into the sea where we found ‘em and be done with it.”

“You would do well to hold your tongue, George Scourie,” Hook hissed dangerously, “My commands are not up for discussion.”

“No,” the man shot back, “Everyone’s thinkin’ it, I’m just saying it. It’s not natural how they came here. Being fished out of the sea was bad enough, but look at their clothing! They’re in naught but their shifts. They’re some strange creatures sent to seduce us to our doom and I’ll have none of it!”

He stomped toward the women, reaching for Rose. She threw up her arms as though to push him away and, though she laid no finger upon him, the pirate was thrown away from her as though a gust of wind had blasted him backwards. Crew, Captain, and women alike stared in utter shock. Scourie found his feet and his rage, his face reddening. 

“Some whore’s trick,” he bellowed, “No gypsy magic will stop me! I’ll throw you overboard myself if none of these cowards will!” 

James watched, amused and bemused at the same time, as Abigail, her face gone as cold as ice, drew Rose behind her. 

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on us,” she warned, her own hands reaching out to stop the pirate bearing down on her lover and her. The crew braced themselves for another gust of wind, but this time blue eyes crackled and a bolt of lightning arced between Abigail’s hand and Scourie’s chest. He shrieked in pain, falling to his knees. Blue eyes sparking, she lowered her hand and the pirate’s body smoked slightly. Rose forced herself to inhale, coming to stand by her lover’s side and taking her hand, half expecting to be shocked herself. But no pain came. They stood together before the shaking pirate. 

“What are you?”

The question was asked from the rest of the gathered crew, as though frightened they too would be struck with lightning or strange wind. 

“Witches,” Abigail answered firmly. The only indication she gave of her own shock was the way she gripped Rose’s hand, tight enough to be painful. 

“Damned powerful ones, too,” Rose added with a smirk. The crew backed away from them. 

“I’d say we’d be in worse luck if they weren’t staying on the ship, then,” Hook said at last, “We can only pray that they be kind and generous enough to bless us with their gifts. Isn’t that right, bullies?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Smee and the First Mate Starkey returned from preparing the cabin and, with a courteous bow and cautious kiss to both of their hands, Jas Hook gestured the women to follow the bo’sun and first mate. They obeyed, casting hesitant glances back at where the charred Scourie still sat slumped on the deck, then fairly fled to their new cabin. Hook watched them go. 

“Witches,” he mused to himself, “Damned powerful ones, too.”

While she somehow managed to stay calm, retaining the image of control so long as Mr. Smee and the First Mate were present, the moment they vanished and the door clicked closed, Rose began to shake. _What the hell was that?_ She looked down at her hands, trembling and cold. A few time she wiggled her fingers, waved them, anything that might incite another reaction like on the deck but nothing happened. Did she have to be afraid for whatever magic had manifested to work? She did not like thinking about that, this whole situation had her scared enough as it was. The very air was charged with magic, she could feel the currents flowing all around her like waves in a tidal pool. Every little ebb and flow, the very motion of the air about her, she could feel it, hypersensitive to the draft coming in from under the door. Never in her life had she been so perceptive to the elements. No word would come to her lips, only quick glances and wary stares that passed between her and her girlfriend. What could possibly be said? They were on a make believe island populated with mythical creatures and somehow ended up meeting the mysterious pirate from their dreams. 

Her mind was reeling as she let her summer dress slide off her body, hanging it on the back of a chair. She never wore anything under her thin dresses, the heat was just too much to bother. Her glasses were removed and set upon the small desk. The sheets were soft enough, clearly homespun and well used. She pulled them up to her chin as she curled up in the narrow bed. Somewhere, who knew how far away, their own bed with her favorite royal blue satin sheets lay empty, their home just abandoned. She wanted to go home, but she could not let herself leave, not now. 

He was here. Actually right in front her, it was almost too much for one mind to comprehend. Countless hours of study, late nights, hours of crying over deadlines and nerve wracking edits to research culminating in the first comprehensive book on the enigmatic captain suddenly seemed to be rewarded. She had dedicated, literally, years of her life to studying this man and now she had gone and accidently insulted him and assaulted his crew. Though the latter deserved it, if she ever figured how to replicate that wind gust the next man to try to touch her was flying right over the railing and into the sea. Would that incite his anger again? What would she even say to him come morning? Did he expect something from them? Could he be as enraptured by their shared dreams as Abigail and she had been, were still? 

Rose felt her cheeks flush with heat. Oh she wanted to, she was not a prude by any stretch of the imagination but still she shocked herself by how easily she could admit that she wanted him. She wanted to feel his kiss for real, know what it felt like to be in his arms in a place other than dreams. And she wanted to speak with him, see if his famous wit was as sharp as the accounts say, if his truly was so prized a student in his day. His reaction to their impromptu recitation of the Bard was enough to whet her appetite, she could only hope she was as curious to him as he was to her. Rose sighed, nestling deeper into the covers, waiting for Abigail to join her. 

He was even more handsome than his portrait, and she could have stared at it for hours. Had stared at it for hours, for research of course. She always had a preference for blue eyes, Abigail had stunning eyes, James did too. Such a piercing gaze made her weak in the knees. 

There was a an elegance about him, despite the tired condition they found him in. Danger and refinement went hand in hand, or hand in hook, with the man. He did not have to give them their own room, for all the trouble they had given him the brig might have been the first choice of some. But he had provided them with privacy and protection, not matter that they had all but laughed at the identity of his nemesis. Yet she could still see in her mind’s eye the way he had first looked at them, with barely restrained wanton lust that threatened to crack his noble exterior. 

James “Hook” was everything she had ever dreamed he would be, and more. But the question was, what did she do now and was she brave enough to do it? 

Abigail stood at the porthole, biting down distractedly on her thumbnail as she let the sea breeze play across her skin. She barely heard Rose slide into the bed, too lost in her own thoughts. 

The power that had surged through her body had been like nothing she had felt before. She was no stranger to magic. She was a witch, magic was in her blood. She could work spells with her will alone but never could she have even dreamed of commanding lightning with her hand. She rubbed her fingers together. Was the tingling in her skin just adrenaline? Or was it the remnants of the electricity that had sparked in her very flesh and exploded from her skin to their attacker? Magic didn’t work like that, certainly not from the world they had come from, and she was shaken. Shaken, but exhilarated. There had been such power at her fingertips, raw and primal and _electrifying_. She hesitantly reached for the polished silver mirror on the rough wooden desk. A single, tiny jolt of lightning danced between her fingertip and the mirror and she bit back a gasp, pulling her hand back slightly. She clenched her fist then reached for the mirror again. This time, there was no lightning and she held the mirror up before her face. 

Her blue eyes were bright, unnaturally so, and she thought she could see sparks in their depths. She sucked in a deep breath, searching the poor reflection of her face for any details. There was something about this place, this ship, this island, this sea, the very air. Something was different from back home, something that called to her, caressed her skin, and filled her with something new. 

It was magic, she knew it was. There was magic in this place, more magic than she had ever felt in the mundane world. There was magic in the very air, in every breath she took, and already she could feel the changes. The lightning was just the beginning. There was so much more to explore. 

And there was him. Captain Jas Hook. Oh, he was beautiful. She had thought her dreams - _their_ dreams - had been just fantasies, fanciful creations of a lustful heart. But he was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She had caught Rose staring at his portrait a little too long while she was supposedly studying for her thesis. And her own blue eyes had lingered over the painting. But he was only James Eliott then, Baron Heathfield, the nobleman gone rogue. Which was an interesting enough story on its own. But then she had seen him in her dreams and he was beautiful. 

Seeing him standing before them on the deck, very much alive and very much real, had been almost too much. It had taken every ounce of self control not to touch him, not to reach out and press her hand to his chest to make _sure._

It was probably best she had resisted. In their dreams it had taken less than a touch for him to fall upon her and take her. Gods only knew what would happen if she were to touch him now. But oh, she wanted to. She wanted to feel his warm skin beneath her fingers, to press kisses to his mouth, to wrap her legs around him and permit him within her. 

In the mirror, she watched her cheeks darken and her pupils dilate. He was dangerous. He carried danger married with grace in every inch and movement of his body and her pulse quickened. He was dangerous. Very, very dangerous. 

She slowly put the mirror down and reached to pull her thin, summer dress over her head. Her curls fell over her shoulder. So alike to his. She wondered if his curls were as soft as hers. She cast the dress to the floor, sliding her underwear down over her wide hips and stepping idly out of them. She stood before the porthole and willed the breeze to come to her. 

She had always been good with weather magic, even in the mundane world, so the cool sea-breeze obeyed her call at once. It wrapped around her body, raising delicious goosebumps on her pale skin, and her hand cupped her breast. Her other hand smoothed down the planes of her stomach, brushing against the hair between her legs. She remembered his touch on her skin. Even though it had only been in dreams, his touch was branded onto her flesh. 

She wanted him to touch her. She ached for it. She needed to feel his fingers caressing her arm, taking her breast in his hand. She yearned for the cold kiss of his hook. His blue eyes had spoken of his own longing. When he had looked at them, drenched and shivering, on his deck, she had both worried and wished that he would take them right there, make them his for all his crew to see. When he had taken them into his cabin, she had seen the way he looked at them. His blue eyes scorched her from the inside out and she had forced herself not to touch him, to barely look at him, for fear her legs would part on their own accord and she would move too fast. 

She hadn’t studied the wayward Baron Heathfield for years, like Rose had. She didn’t know his life-story backwards, or the last eight generations of his family line. She hadn’t memorized his face or tracked down every trace of his studies at Eton and Oxford. No, the only way she knew him was in the carnal pleasures of their dreams. And she hungered to know him again.

She pulled her hand away from the place of her lust, steeling herself. It would be torture to stay and live with the desire to have him, looking but not touching. It would be agony to be so close and yet never close enough. But she did not want to leave. She couldn’t. There was too much to explore, too much to discover and to experience. 

She slid under the blanket and wrapped her arm around Rose’s waist, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. 

And he had accused them of being the succubi send to torment his waking thoughts.

He was the dangerous one.


	4. Female Companionship

James Matthew Hook was a clever man. Quite the cleverest on the island, he liked to think. There was nothing that could puzzle him and no one that he could not out-think. So when his thoughts turned to the women currently in each other’s arms in the First Mate’s cabin and his mind presented him with a slew of curses and little else, he understandably turned to drink. He of course had not learned any sort of lesson with his spill earlier and the atrocious draught Rose had forced into his hand. 

He kicked the door of his cabin closed and reached for a bottle of Tokay. Uncorking it with his hook, he took a long swig. The fortified wine burned his throat and he scowled, sinking down onto the chaise by the window. He hissed out an exhale, his head bowed as he forced himself to think. 

What was he doing? What was his plan? He needed a plan. When he woke in the morning, he would need a strategy. They were on his ship, they would be flaunting their shoulders and their legs, they would be seducing him with every glance even if they did not consciously try. He would need to be prepared to face them and stand strong as captain of his ship and their host. He was doomed. 

They were real. They were sleeping together in a cabin not far from his. They were living and breathing and beautiful. Their dreams had always had a vague sense of mystery around them, an aura of the unknown, and it had almost been easier to leave the dreams in Dreamland. Of course, the thoughts had lingered, but it had been easier to force himself to leave them behind in his waking thoughts. Then they had appeared on his ship and his fingers had ached to touch them. He had. He had found the bruises he had left on Rose. But it was not enough. After their dreams, he would not be satisfied until they were his again.

He wanted them. He wanted them desperately. They had turned his thoughts from the Boy. They held his attention, _all_ of his attention. He had taken them so many times in his dreams that he had their bodies memorized. They were so bright. Their eyes sparkled, their intelligence glowed, and he had been taken aback. He knew them Biblically, knew how they writhed beneath him, screamed his name. Then Abigail had recited Shakespeare and Rose’s eyes had lit up with the wisdom of a scholar. They thrived on experiences and they had landed on a magical island - the most perfect place to explore and learn. They had stroked his books with the same love he did. They were filled with intelligence and gentleness, as was appropriate of the fairer sex. 

Then he remembered how Rose had thrown George Scourie backward with naught but a gesture and the way lightning had arced from Abigail’s fingers. _Fairer sex indeed._ His bullies were frightened of them and well they should be. He also should be wary. To an extent, he was, but his fear was tempered with dream-memories of them whimpering his name. But the gust of wind swirling through Rose’s long hair and the electricity crackling through Abigail’s aura were marks of a power that he would never have. They brought one of his fearsome crew to his knees with barely a thought. 

They were witches. He had thought perhaps their powers had their limits in Dreamland but something was different here. Their magic was real and he was exhilarated by it. The magic of Neverland was undeniable and surely it was having an effect upon the sorceresses. They had mentioned working spells in their Otherworld, spells that had brought them to the Neverland. They must be very powerful. He was sure that lightning and wind were only the least of what they could accomplish if their powers were fully strengthened by remaining near the magic of the Neverland. He would keep them on his ship and watch their powers grow. 

He could benefit from them. As their powers grew, he could convince them to use their abilities to help him finally earn his victory over the wretched Boy. Controlling the wind to stop him from flying away, lightning to bring him down. Pan was no match against the fearsome Jas Hook and his sorceresses. With Rose and Abigail by his side, he could finally have peace from Peter Pan and the Never Sea would be his for the taking. Neverland would be his. At last, he would know satisfaction. 

He took another swig of Tokay. He was Captain James Hook, Blackbeard’s bo’sun and betrayer, the only man that Barbecue ever feared, the villain nemesis of the Boy Peter Pan. Two witches were no threat to him. He took another gulp, idly wondering how lightning would feel striking his skin. Perhaps they were some threat. But Jas Hook was nothing if not charming and he would win them to his side. He had already won them to his bed in their dreams, surely he could charm their intelligence and gentleness as well. Though that Irish one had a tongue as sharp as his, there was little gentleness in that one. The French belle was kinder than her companion, she had cared for him in his alcohol sickness. But he was not afraid of them. They were women and no women had yet resisted the chivalrous seduction of his very being. 

At last, he dropped off to sleep and for the first time in three weeks, it was dreamless. 

***

“Try again!”

Abigail blew her dark curls out of her face and tossed the apple to her left hand. Rose stood by the mainmast on the main-deck, looking nervous but determined. Abigail inhaled and threw the apple toward her girlfriend. Rose threw her hands out but the apple did not stop and Rose ducked with a yelp. The apple thumped to the deck, bouncing and rolling to bump against the wheels of the cannon-mount. The bruises on the fruit spoke to the amount of failed attempts. Abigail sighed and crossed the deck to pick up the poor apple. 

“Why won’t it work?” Rose complained, balling her hands into fists. “Ugh, try it again!”

“Rose, if it hasn’t worked yet,” Abigail began. 

“No!” Rose insisted, “I can do it! I did it before!”

“In a moment of duress!” Abigail argued, “We were going to be thrown over the side of a ship to drown!”

“So our lives have to be in danger for our powers to work?” Rose shot back, “I don’t think so! Throw it again!”

Abigail threw it. Harder than perhaps she needed to, but it didn’t matter because once again the apple bounced across the deck. Rose cursed loudly and the pirates, who had been doing a marvellous job of ignoring the witches, looked up. Abigail wearily picked up the apple and started to take a bite out of it.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Rose,” Abigail complained, “Please, be sensible! Take a break.”

“I have to get it to work again!”

“Rose,” Abigail said gently, “It will work again. It worked once. We just need to figure out what triggers it.”

“So try again!”

Abigail snarled out her own curse. She readied to throw the apple again and the door to the captain’s cabin flew open. The apple flew through the air and a man’s voice roared, “What the devil is going on?”

Rose yelped in surprise and a blast of wind caught the apple in the air before it hit her and it hovered, held by the current of air from the witch’s hand. Abigail gasped, Rose flashed a stunned smile, and James stomped to the balustrade at the edge of the quarter-deck to look down at the witches standing below him. 

“It worked!” Rose exclaimed, “It worked!”

The apple thumped to the ground and Abigail laughed at the sour look on Rose’s face. 

“It _was_ working!” Rose insisted.

“I know, love,” Abigail said, picking up the poor bruised apple, “I saw it. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Rose pouted and Abigail tossed her the apple. Rose took a bite out of it and glanced up to where the captain was glowering down at them.

“Did we disturb you?” He did not look amused but she was not in an amused kind of mood. “We were only practicing.” 

“And causing a damn ruckus on my ship,” obviously he was not a morning person. But neither were they and they still had managed to get up none the less. It had been an almost surreal experience, waking up to find that yesterday had not been a figment of their imaginations. The cries of seabirds and the gentle rocking of the ship had been their chiming clock, alerting them to the fantastic place in which they found themselves. For a little while they refused to even leave the bed, somewhere in the world between sleep and awake they simply clung to each other and shared sleepy kisses, as they did every morning. Then the gulls and waves brought reality crashing down and the wide eyes and sharp shriek of her lover brought Rose fully into the land of the waking. 

“It’s real!” 

Rose nodded, startled and half falling from the bed. 

“He’s real!”

Again, her wordless reply was repeated. 

“Where is he?”

She pointed to the wall, in the general direction of the captain’s cabin.

It has been quite a start to the day. With nothing else in their possession, they had dressed in their clothing from the previous day. Their dresses smelled of sea water and had a coarse feel to them, but there was naught to do about it. At the moment they had finished dressing, a knock came from the door. Abigail called for the guest to enter. In came the elder man, Mr. Smee, carrying a tray of fruit, bread, oats and tea. 

“Breakfast, ladies,” the old man smiled. For a pirate he was surprisingly jolly and polite.

“Thank you,” they said in chorus. 

“I’m sure the cap’n would have wanted to dine with you but he’s indisposed at the moment,” he sat the tray down on the little desk. “Enjoy.” They tucked into their meal, not bothering to ask why the captain could not join them. It was a little obvious, the man clearly had a weakness for drink. Breakfast was finished rather fast, neither had realized how hungry they were. And then they began to converse. Not about the man in the room next door, but rather about the strange display of power that affected them both the day before. Which was how they found themselves in the current situation, attempting to replicate the strange event. 

“We are trying to reproduce the magic from yesterday,” Rose told him, munching on her apple. 

“And giving me a pounding headache in the process,” he growled. 

“How can you hear that all the way back there?” Abigail raised a brow. “Or was your head already sore from turning that bottle on its head?”

“Might we continue this conversation in a more private setting?” His words were polite, but his tone was positively radiating barely restrained….something. It was hard to tell. True, they had just laid a fair amount of sarcasm on him, but the way he was looking at them spoke of another emotion entirely. 

“We’d be delighted,” Abigail said, threading her arm through Rose’s. “Come, my love, we’ve been invited to a private audience with the captain and we mustn’t keep him waiting.” They walked together, as though they were on a Sunday stroll in the park, across the deck and up the stairs where Hook was stationed. 

“Good morning, Captain,” Rose smiled. “I hope you slept well.”

“Indeed,” he smiled devilishly, “I rested completely free of dreams. It was quite the relief.”

“Well I slept in the arms of a beautiful, naked woman,” Abigail preened, “it was glorious. Really, you should try it sometime.” James swallowed hard, his hand gripping the balustrade until his knuckles turned white. 

“This way,” he growled and lead them to his cabin. 

Rose noticed the ornate plaque upon the door, it had been too dark and far too chaotic to have seen it last night. Brilliant gold letters in winding letters proclaimed the name and rank of the man who dwelled within. It truly was a magnificent room, she felt as though she could look a hundred time and always find something new. But what most caught her eye was the work of art that sat in the far corner. A harpsichord of such fine craftsmanship that any curator would weep just looking at it. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch the antique ivory and ebony keys. She had been playing the since she was a little girl, her historian father giving in to her childhood dream of learning the notoriously difficult instrument. Perhaps, when he was in a better mood, Captain Hook might let her play it. Abigail must have seen her longing glances and gently stroked her arm, smiling warmly at her. 

“You said you were practicing your magic?” He sat down at his desk, the very picture of refinement. 

“In the attempt to use it again without being scared out of our wits,” Rose grumbled. 

“As you could no doubt see,” Abigail began, the sharp glint in her eye that James was beginning to recognize meant sharp words as well, “We were less than successful.”

“That is, until you scared me out of my wits,” Rose added. 

“I am also intrigued at how your powers manifested themselves,” Hook said, rubbing his claw as he was wont to do while deep in thought or while plotting. “Between the two of you, Scourie is half-dead and refuses to speak to anyone.”

Abigail smirked her cold amusement and Rose straightened with a firm, “As well he should.”

“In any case,” Hook continued politely, “magic brought you here to me, and your magic continues to grow. I am interested in your conjury, dear witches.”

“Interested in how you can benefit from it,” Abigail said at once, eyes like chips of ice. 

“Perhaps,” Hook confessed with a smile, “But I have an intellectual curiosity in you as well, my interest does not purely lie in the physical chemistry. I am a man of many interests, as you can surely see. When confronted with enchantresses filled with magic, any man would be curious.”

“Of course, you are not simply a man, are you?” Rose inquired, the picture of innocence. 

“Certainly not,” he agreed with a good-natured smile. 

“Then ask you questions, captain, and we shall answer them to the best of our ability,” one would think they were seated at a salon for all the cordiality passing between them.  
“How does your magic manifest in the Otherworld? Your demonstration yesterday was entirely new, was it not?”

“Yesterday was nothing like we’ve ever experienced before,” Abigail walked around the cabin, looking over trinkets and eyeing them in the bright light of day. “Magic never just shoots out our fingertips, that’s the stuff of fiction.”

“Witches are often known for controlling the weather though,” he said pointedly. 

“And we supposedly fly on broomsticks too but that isn’t true either,” the younger woman cocked her head to the side. “However it could be worth a try now.”

“Isn’t there some vile potion made of infant’s blood one needs to make said broomstick fly?”

“That, sir, is the product of an overly active imagination in an age without reason and far too much paranoia from the church,” Rose said bitterly. “If anyone tried make those potions, minus the blood of an infant for goodness sake, they would be ingesting a powerful hallucinogenic.”

“Such as the herbal concoction that if you inhale it you’ll turn into a werewolf,” Abigail chuckled. “Or die in the process, either way you’re still not a shapeshifter by the end.” James seemed to turn a little green at that.

“And what of black masses conducted by Lucifer? Does he not appear as a goat or black cat for high rituals?” 

“May I be frank?” Rose asked and he nodded. “Satan has nothing to do with witchcraft, or at least the vast majority of it, and we do not deal with him at all. While spellcraft is something both Abigail and I are quite good in, it’s only one aspect of our faith.”

“Faith? What faith is required to call lightning from the sky? Witches ought to be the antithesis of _faith._ ” He sat back, seemingly to look them over once again. 

“Certainly not in the sense you’re thinking. Do you own a copy of Hesiod’s _Theogony?_ ” The look he gave her made Abigail chortle. “Well it’s polite to ask rather than assume,” Rose pouted a little. 

“Forgive my manners, you were only upholding yours.” But he was still smirking at her and both women soon found themselves grinning back a little. Had he just teased them? “And yes, I do have the book in question.”

“Then you are familiar with the gods I worship. Darling?” She turned to her girlfriend who was currently searching the bookshelf once again. “What were the Irish mythologies called?”

“Cycles,” she was closely examining the third shelf on the left, where a marble bust of Pallas Athena sat. “There are four of them; The Mythological Cycle, with the Tuatha Dé Dannan, then the Ulster Cycle about Cú Chulainn, followed by the Fenian Cycle and finally the Historical Cycle. And there isn’t a single book here about any of them,” she stood up with hands on her hips. “You have everything from Ovid to Aeneas but nothing from Ireland!”

“Irish myth is primarily recorded in monastic texts in a dialect of Gaelic that is archaic at best. Even if I had the inclination to read them I would not be able to.” He seemed to be ignoring the elephant in the room, not yet ready to tackle the subject of polytheistic sorceresses. 

“Now if they were in Latin it would be a different story,” Rose quipped. “That was your specialty at Oxford, or so I’ve read, and you were top of your class to boot.”

“You read correctly,” he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “And the fictional history of the Irish was far from the accepted curriculum.” They turned their gaze on him, a mixture of amusement and offense, he stilled in his chair. 

“Fictional? Says the man who lives with mermaids for neighbors,” Abigail huffed. “And luckily for you we are here now, you’ll get a comprehensive education on world religion.”

Rose leaned in, elbows resting on the edge of his mahogany desk, chin cradled in her hands. “You were never a man of faith, it just doesn’t set well with you to put your life in the hands of a god you cannot see or justify the wrongs committed on earth with no sign of divine retribution. The most religious actions you ever performed were the mandatory services in school and those attended by your family. And I respect that, what’s good for the goose is not always good for the gander. But to many people from our time, the ancient gods are very real and we have our own modern interpretation of worshiping them.”

“And which gods...are you devoted to?” He did not comment on Rose’s assessment of his stance on religion, even for the reaffirmation of them she gave and certainly made no comment on her knowledge of his family. They could not tell exactly what was going through his mind but it seemed to them that he was attempting to hear out them out.

“Hecate and Minerva,” Rose answered with a smile. 

“The Morrigan and Thor,” Abigail abandoned the shelf with a smirk.

“The former two I am well aware of, but you will hardly be surprised that I am woefully unknowledgable of the later. Beyond the basic profile of a thunder god with a hammer.” It must have taken no small amount of effort for him to admit ignorance. 

“At some point she will have to conduct a class, as it were,” the elder witch said in a gentle voice. “Abigail is quite the storyteller, you shall have no shortage of entertainment while we are here.”

“I shudder to think about what constitutes dinner conversation amongst you two,” there was that teasing note again. Was he actually enjoying himself? Rose thought he actually was, watching another round of double edged banter continue between the captain and her lover. If the history books were correct, James was man with a thirst for knowledge that was never satiated. It gave her a feeling of pride, that they were the source of that thirst. 

“But the magic on the Mainland?” He pressed again. Such an odd term, the Mainland, to use in regards to the mundane world. 

“Never so dramatic,” Abigail said dismissively. “Magic there is based more in ritual.”

“Lighting the candles, drawing the circle, calling down the deities,” Rose chimed in, “That is part of creating magic. It’s not an instant gratification. Once the energy of the spell is put out into the universe, it takes its time to manifest. For example, a spell for love doesn’t cause the next person you see to fall in love with you. It draws love to you when you’re ready for it.”

“And curses? Witches are famous for casting those.”

“Oh curses are very real,” there was a strange gleam in Abigail’s pale eyes. “If you have been wronged you have every right to avenge yourself with magic.”

“You have done this,” it was more of a statement than a question, the witch nodded. “To whom was your vengeance directed?”

“Perhaps when we’re a little better acquainted I’ll tell you,” she answered, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “It’s rather personal.” 

“And you?” James turned to Rose who smiled that sweet smile of hers, she nearly looked innocent. 

“A little graveyard dirt, an open flame and imagination will go a long way.” He almost regretted ever asking but then he might have been caught off guard had he not begun the conversation himself. Ancient gods, hexes, women from the future, it all came crashing down upon him. Last night he had the good fortune to be drunk when confronting what little truth was known to him, taking all this in while sober was simply too much to ask of him.

“Pray excuse me, ladies,” he shot up from his chair to stand on unsteady feet. “I need to see to something on deck, I should return shortly.” He needed air, open space. They made to speak but he was already halfway across the cabin, the door slowly coming into his reach. Salt air and a strong wind blew his hair back as he left the confines of his cabin. It was a beautiful spring day, hardly a cloud in the sky. Yes, he needed to concentrate on the smell of the sea, the heat of the sun. Not the bright eyes and sharp minds of the women he escaped. A flock of gulls cried out close to shore. Powerful and beautiful, the witches were far more than he had bargained for. Off in the distance a pair of dolphins splashed and played. For all their cheek which might have earned another a handshake with his hook, he was amused and challenged. What was he to make of this? 

From the beautiful blue sky came an echoing crow and James froze. His eyes widened, every muscle in his body stiffening. _No. Not him. Not now._

“Oh, Captain Hoooooooook!”

A Boy dressed in leaves came soaring down from the clouds and the pirate responded at once. 

“PAN!” 

The cannons fired at his command and, in the captain’s cabin, the women looked up. The cannon fire echoed through the ship and the women reached for each other’s hands. They heard pistol fire, the bellowing of the pirates, and what sounded like a crow. 

Abigail leapt to her feet, staring at the door. “Rose, did you hear that?”

“The rooster?”

Abigail turned back to look at her girlfriend, blue eyes wide, “No, it’s Pan. He’s real.”

“Abigail, we should stay here, it’s dangerous out there!”

But Abigail did not hear her, she was already out the door. She took the steps to the main-deck two at a time, leaping down onto the deck in time to see the small boy cartwheeling through the air as the pirates tried to shoot at him. James stood in the middle of the melee, curls tossing as he aimed his musket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abigail, her eyes wide and breast heaving with amazement. He grunted to one of his pirates and the brute seized the witch by the arms, hauling her out of the way. 

She yelped in surprise but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Boy. The pirate held her perhaps too tightly but she was too involved with the very thought that Peter Pan, the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, was real. He was hovering in the air above the ship and mocking the pirates, flaunting his crow. It was one thing to see an actress onstage or read the books, but confronted once again with the reality of the situation, the situation which should be only a fairy-tale, the woman was understandably overcome.

“Oh, gods,” Abigail breathed, “He’s real. Neverland is real. Hook is real. It’s all real.”

“Abigail!” Rose leapt up the stairs and was seized by another pirate, pulled out of the way of Cookson’s pistol before it fired at the boy. 

The shot got Pan’s attention and as he twisted out of the way, he caught sight of the women. Wide-eyed and gasping, they were held cruelly tight by Hook’s crew. The Boy knew about captives; his Boys had been held captive by the Indians many a time in their play-fights. These women were clearly held hostage by the pirates. Where had he found them? What did the old codfish want with them? Female companionship? Surely nothing good. But they would make good mothers for him and his Lost Boys. 

“The codfish has company!” Pan exclaimed, “They’re far too pretty to be trapped with you stinking grown-ups!”

“Peter Pan,” Rose gasped. Abigail nodded. 

The flying Boy went cartwheeling over the heads of the pirates, hovering over the seawater and flashed his baby-toothed grin to the captain with the hook. 

“This isn’t over, Pan!” Hook fired another shot from his musket and Pan flipped to avoid it. 

“Come and get me, codfish!” And the boy spiralled away towards the jungle, followed by the captain’s scream of rage. 

“Prepare the boats!” Hook bellowed, swiping at his crew with his hook, “Move, you scum! We follow him!”

The pirates raced to obey. Abigail and Rose shrunk to the side, whispering to each other. James pointed to them with his hook, “You two! You are to remain in my cabin until such a time as I return. No discussion, no arguing. Get in the cabin. Go!”

Clutching each other’s hand, they raced up the steps to the quarterdeck and fled into the captain’s cabin.


	5. A Man of Feeling

It had been a disaster of Titanic proportions. Yet another humiliating defeat at the hands of the Boy. Five men dead, a formerly secret stash of gunpowder lay at the bottom of the sea, and he was left hanging upside down from a tree by his ankle thanks to the truce between the feral children and the Savages. The short trip back in the long boat was utterly silent. None of the surviving men dared to make so much as a peep, as at least one of their casualties had been his doing. Fury had a way of taking over him and murder made in cold blood seemed to be the best manner to calm the inferno. When they pulled aside the _Jolly Roger_ he barely allowed the rope ladder to completely unfurl before he was climbing it. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and that accursed isle. The crew scattered like frightened animals as he stalked across the deck. Hook paid them no mind, they were all as insignificant as flies to him. All he could even think of now was locking himself into his cabin, uncorking a bottle of the nearest spirit and ruminating over all the ways he might enact his imminent vengeance. So consumed was he by those dark thoughts that he already had his hand on the doorknob when he finally heard the music.

Beautiful music it was, and coming from within his cabin. 

He paused at the threshold, suddenly unsure how to feel or knowing just what exactly was going on. So he simply stood there, and listened. 

Twas his harpsichord, that much he could tell instantly. Who the devil would be brave or foolish enough to even breathe on his prized instrument? 

The longer he stood there the more the tune began to take the form of memory in his mind. Chambers lit with the orange glow of pure white candles, the flutter of fans, silks rustling and a hush falling over the crowd as the musician finally took their seat. Concerts in private salons, he had never turned down an invitation when it came to music and had once been on good terms with several composers during his time in the capitol. This music...he knew it from a lifetime ago. An Allemande by Rameau, he recalled how it felt to play such fine works. The longer he listened, the more subdued his rage became. Who could be playing? Carefully, he entered his room, closing the door quietly behind him. On silent feet he moved, not even bothering to remove his hat or weapons, so entranced was he by the sight which finally gave him his answer. 

Rose sat before the instrument, her eyes closed, graceful fingers leaping across the ivory keys. Through the stained and clear glass came beams of late afternoon sunlight, illuminating the red tint in her hair and giving her fair skin a golden glow. Abigail lay upon the chaise, her eyes too were shut to the world, though one hand flew through the air as though she were conducting the concert herself. Both of them remained still, fully captured by the notes floating through the room. Hook dare not announce himself, else the spell would be broken. And such a spell it was, he was ensnared totally without a care of ever being released. To hear his sanctuary filled once more with the sweet refrains of music, complete music, not the poor imitation he had been cursed with by the loss of his hand, was little more than a dream until this day. 

She played so beautifully. He blatantly stared as her body swayed with the tempo, his sharp gaze catching the shadow of a smile as she easily maneuvered through a difficult passage. All the heavenly choirs could not compare to the earthly angel of music before him. 

The melody faded as she reached the end of the piece and Abigail shifted to sit up. He drew back into the shadows, some idea of good form stopping him from interrupting the scene before him. He had long forgotten music and beauty, had long forsaken the thought that he deserved either. He was loath to disturb them.

“Rose,” Abigail said with a flash of a bright smile, “Play me something I can sing to, please? Something fun?”

Rose winked at her lover and her fingers danced on the ivories of the harpsichord, a lively tune rippling up from the strings. Abigail beamed and jumped to her feet, curls tossing and skirt swaying. 

“As I came down through Dublin City at the hour of twelve at night, who should I see but the Spanish lady washing her feet by candlelight?” Abigail sang, eyes glittering with fun as she wrapped her arms around the waist of her love, her hips swaying with the rhythm of the song, “First she washed them, then she dried them over a fire of amber coal. In all my life I ne'er did see a maid so sweet about the sole!”

Rose laughed, the seriousness of the first piece melting away in light of the way Abigail was giggling and singing at once. Rose’s voice joined Abigail’s and they sang together, “Whack for the toora loora laddy, whack for the toora loora lay! Whack for the toora loora laddy, whack for the toora loora lay!”

He listened to them sing. This lively song was one unfamiliar to him but he found a small smile on his lips as he watched the ladies have their fun. Abigail spun away from the harpsichord, dancing and twirling jig, laughing. Rose giggled and focused back on the harpsichord. Something in his heart prompted him to take a step closer to them, wanting to join in their revelry but knowing it was no place for him. He took another step closer. Abigail’s curls tossed through the air, her movements graceful as she spun, laughing. He took another step closer. Abigail laughed. He took another step.

Abigail collided with James’ chest with a gasp of surprise. His hand shot out to grip her shoulder lest she fall. Rose looked up at the sound and she jerked her hands away from the harpsichord. Abigail looked up at the captain and her rosy cheeks paled. She jerked away from him, stumbling backwards on the rug. Rose reached for her and clasped her hand to her breast, hazel eyes wide as she looked up at the captain. 

The joy was gone from their faces, the light and laughter had been stifled by his mere presence. As it always was. He was the villain of the story, no one loved him. And he played his part well.

“Were you given permission to touch my harpsichord, woman?” His voice was loud and filled with misplaced anger. His ire had been invoked by the Boy and the failed attempt on Pan’s life, not by his muses. But he could not stop himself. “No one is permitted to touch my harpsichord. No one!”

They held each other, hazel and blue eyes staring up at him from pale, frightened faces. He knew he must look fearsome. Shirt ripped, hair wild, gleaming hook, forget-me-not eyes still flickering with fading pinpricks of scarlet. He inhaled sharply through his nose and abruptly turned on his heel, stalking to his liquor chest. He pulled a bottle of muscat from the chest, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a long gulp. 

“Shall I take it you were unsuccessful today, then?” Rose asked cautiously. 

“Whatever would give you that idea?” He growled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Go ahead, woman, play the damn harpsichord if you want to.”

Rose glanced up at Abigail who offered a helpless gesture. Slowly, she returned her fingers to the keys and started a soft, gentle melody. Hook forced himself to exhale, taking the bottle with him as he sank down onto the chaise. Rose kept playing nervously, her fingers shaking ever so slightly. Abigail squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and glanced over at the captain. He sat hunched over, elbows resting against his thighs as he took another swig from the bottle. Abigail took a hesitant step towards him and Rose fumbled a key as she looked sharply up at her lover with a warning in her eyes. As usual, the younger witch discarded it and Rose forced herself to focus on her music, not looking away from the ivories. 

Abigail moved hesitantly toward the captain. She eased onto her knees behind him on the chaise, unconsciously nibbling on her lip as she slowly reached around to the front of his coat. He stiffened in surprise but Abigail continued with the careful motion of pulling his velvet coat from his shoulders. He permitted the coat to be removed from his body, setting the bottle of rum by his feet, and Abigail laid it carefully over the back of the chaise. His hat soon followed. Her pale hands slowly moved next to where the hem of his dirtied shirt was tucked into the waist of his breeches. His hand gripped her wrist and he turned narrowed forget-me-not eyes to pierce hers.

“What do you think you are doing, lass?”

“Hopefully making you comfortable,” she breathed in response, fighting to keep her pulse from hammering too hard under his fingers. “And easing your tension?”

His eyes dropped to her parted lips where he could hear her breathing quickening, then down to her breasts and waist, then her knees where she knelt behind him, then trailed his gaze back up to her face. He released her wrist and she slowly pulled the hem of his shirt up, coaxing his shirt from his torso, revealing lean muscle. 

He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, a crest which Abigail recognized from some of Rose’s research as the crest of Eton. But what immediately caught her attention were the whip scars crossing his back. She heard the harpsichord falter and knew that Rose had seen them too. Her fingertips reached hesitantly out to brush against one of the scars with a feather-light touch that James still felt. He took another swig of muscat, shoulders tense. He felt more than heard the witch’s soft exhale at the sight. He knew what came next. She would pull away, she would take her lover and leave. No woman liked his scars. They spoke of pain and ugliness and what lady liked such things?

He nearly dropped the bottle in shock when he felt the light press of her lips against his scars. 

“Poor James,” he heard her whisper, “You have lived through such pain.”

He raised the bottle to his lips again. 

Her cool hands pressed against his shoulders, working at the knots of tension in his muscles. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, easing his stress away. He groaned in his chest in spite of himself and was met with matching giggles from both witches. The harpsichord music continued in the background, lulling him into a kind of trance. Perhaps they were weaving a spell around him, but he found he did not care. He allowed himself to enjoy the music and the tender touch of a woman for the first time in a long while. Rose began to hum and Abigail’s fingers moved from his shoulders to his hair, threading through his curls and massaging his scalp. His head leaned back against her slender shoulder. He could almost get used to this. 

Moments like these reminded him of the dreams which had brought them together. It felt like a dream. It felt too perfect to be real. They were too perfect to be his. 

His blue eyes fluttered open to look up at the pretty face above him. He offered her the bottle. It was as much a kindness as any he could offer. She took it with a smile and took a long drink. As she leaned down to set the bottle on the floor, he smelled the sweet perfume of her skin mixed with salt and liquor. She was braced against his shoulder to keep her balance and his hand wrapped around her arm to hold her steady. She blinked up at him with a twinkle in her eye and he pulled her against him, arm wrapping around her waist. 

“Are you real?” He asked hoarsely, looking up at her. Her brow furrowed.

“Captain?”

“Are you real?” He asked again, blue eyes searching her face. “You’re not some figment of my dreams haunting me still?”

“I’m real, James,” Abigail said softly, “We’re both real.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She pressed her lips to his, her arms winding around his neck, hands cupping his weathered cheeks. His arm tightened around her waist and he cautiously let his guard down for just a moment. He clutched her to him and she kissed him fiercely, each press of her lips an assurance that she was real and not about to vanish, that he was not alone. Her kisses were like a lifeline, a wash of reality among his muddled thoughts. He kissed her like he was dying and in a way he was. 

He didn’t register the music stopping until another set of arms were wrapping around his torso and another set of lips pressed against his neck. He pulled away from Abigail to wrap his other arm around Rose, ever mindful of the hook. Her hazel eyes looked up at him and he closed the distance between their mouths. She clung to his chest, kissing him lovingly. Abigail’s head rested against his shoulder. He held them tight. 

“This feels familiar,” Rose smiled. 

“Just like one of our dreams,” Abigail said. 

“We’re wearing too many clothes for it to be a dream,” James noted wryly. It was the first time he had kissed the women outside of Dreamland and he held them too tightly, convincing himself that they were really there with him. It was easy for him to be lulled into happiness. But happiness was false. He was not allowed happiness. He was Villain. 

“No little children love me,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

“We are not little children,” Abigail said, her breasts at perfect eye level.

“We have more discerning taste,” Rose grinned, her hand stroking the planes of his stomach and lower. 

“Wicked woman…” he growled with a smirk. Abigail’s lips pressed against a sensitive spot on his neck and he hissed, his hand gripping her arse.

“Women, plural,” Abigail corrected him.

“Aye,” he grinned, “Women. Two of them, in my arms. And very soon to be in my bed.”

“In your bed, sir?” Rose blinked up at him with false innocence. “Why, what’s wrong with right here?”

His eyes turned red. His hand left Abigail’s arse to twist into Rose’s auburn hair, “You make a good point, little one. What is wrong with right here?”

Abigail laughed at the way Rose’s eyes widened. She pulled away, watching amusedly as James shoved Rose down onto the chaise. Rose gasped as James freed himself from his breeches - an impressive feat considering his one hand - and pushed her skirt up. Abigail stole his bottle of muscat and settled on top of his desk with it, taking a long drink as she curiously watched the pirate slide himself into her beloved. 

Rose moaned in surprise and delight. Abigail’s eyes narrowed as she nibbled on her lip. James grunted low in his chest, his hook finding a purchase on the back of the chaise as his hips rolled against Rose, who arched under him. Her nails dug into his back, pulling him closer. 

It was like one of their dreams, watching the other being taken by the handsome pirate captain. It was like one of their dreams, the late sunlight filtering through the panes of the cabin’s windows. It was like one of their dreams and it seemed wonderful. 

Rose’s beautiful eyes were glazed with pleasure, lashes fluttering. Cries fell from her mouth and Abigail smirked. She liked hearing those sounds. James tossed his hair out of his face, his hand delving between Rose’s legs to press against the sweet bundle of nerves which sent her toes curling and her hips twitching. He leaned down to kiss her neck, followed by a sharp bite which sent Rose crying out and clutching herself to him. He filled her, thrusting himself deep within her and her legs wrapped around his hips. Abigail shifted on the desk, taking another long drink from the bottle. 

His lean muscles worked as he thrust into Rose and her moans changed pitch, coming higher and faster as he pressed against that special place inside her. He grunted out a curse as she tightened around him and caught the wicked smile she flashed up at him. Another couple of strokes and he was climaxing, groaning into her shoulder as he filled her. Another couple of caresses of her clit brought her own orgasm tearing through her and she cried out in ecstasy. Abigail took another swig of muscat. 

“So,” she said after a moment to let them recover. “Did it work?”

“Pardon?” James grunted, sitting up from Rose. He slipped out from inside her and Rose whimpered at the sudden emptiness but the pirate was focused on the witch staring coldly across at him. “Did what work?”

“Fucking your loneliness away?”

It took a moment for Hook to comprehend what she had said, but when he did he lurched to his feet, an insult upon his curled lip. 

“No, go ahead,” Abigail sneered, “Hurl your insults and spit your curses. Hide behind your words again, like you always do, I bet. Your words are your bravado and, yes, you use them well. But you won’t fool me. I see right through you, James Hook. You know why? Because in this we are the same. We are very similar, _Captain_ , too similar for me to fall for any of your shit.”

“I have defeated men far stronger and smarter than you, girl,” he snarled. 

“You have defeated men, James,” she pushed herself off the table, “When have you emerged victorious with a woman?”

He cast a careless gesture to where Rose lay trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “Your lover might disagree.”

“Men have been physically dominating women since the dawn of time,” Abigail said dismissively, “But words? Words are the woman’s weapon. As is poison, incidentally. And you never go anywhere without poison. Now, what does that say about you?”

His lip curled and his teeth bared in a snarl as he stepped dangerously close to her, “Have a care, witch, or I might come to hate you.”

“Oh, no,” she smiled up at him, “You don’t hate me. The things that you hate about me are also the things that you hate about yourself.”

His hand lifted but she held up a finger before he could strike her.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided, “A gentleman doesn’t hit a lady. It’s bad form.”

“You are no lady, wench.”

“But you are a gentleman.” She smirked, “Or so you claim.”

She gave him a little bow, “Now, if you will excuse me. I need to take some air.”

She pressed the bottle of muscat into his hand and brushed by him, the cabin door closing behind her. He sucked in a long breath and turned to Rose. 

“What was that?” He demanded. 

“She wants you to open up to us more,” Rose translated, reaching for his dressing gown to wrap around her shoulders. “She wants you to admit your feelings for us.”

“Feelings?” He nearly spat the word in disgust. “Why?”

Rose shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“Why couldn’t she just say that?”

“She’s dramatic.” Rose pushed herself to her feet. Plucking the bottle from his hand, she took a swig and handed it back. “I’m going to clean myself up.”

He watched her move towards the washbasin and wet a rag to wipe between her legs. Silence filled the cabin. Finally, Rose looked up.

“What are you waiting for?”

“What?” He said, nonplussed. 

“Go after her and talk to her.”

“Why?” He responded, “So I can be insulted again?”

“That’s just her way,” Rose said, reaching for the brush and pulling it through her long hair. “She also doesn’t like to let people in. She was right when she said the two of you are similar. Go talk to her.”

He scowled, “I don’t think I want to.”

“Coward.”

He flushed in anger. Downing the rest of the muscat, he looked up at the woman seated on his bed. Being inside her had been beautiful and wonderful and just looking at her he wanted her again. He took half a step towards her but she caught his eye.

“James, go. Find her and just tell her that you have feelings.”

His lip curled again at the word. 

“You have them, I know you do.”

“Woman, you know nothing about me.”

She looked up at him and there was something tight in her lips and bright in her eye. She got to her feet and took a deep breath. “I have studied you for years, James Matthew Eliott. I know your entire life-story backwards and forwards. I remember details about your life that you’ve forgotten. I can recite eight generations of your family line. But you’re right. I don’t know you at all.”

And she too brushed past him, leaving him alone in his cabin with an empty bottle and an empty heart.


	6. Concern for the Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be sex ahead. Ye be warned.

Rose was careful to close the door softly behind her, not wanting to alert any of the crew to another presence rushing out of the captain’s cabin. The later afternoon sun was warm, the sky clear of any cloud. Off in the distance, she could see the edge of night moving steadily towards them. For a moment she was taken aback, day and night sharing the sky, it was an awe inspiring sight. The stars with their oddly familiar constellations were bright and twinkling before her, the golden rays of the sun behind. She wondered at that, looking upon the form of Leo, for only a moment. Curiosities would have to wait until later, she needed to find her girlfriend. On the shady side of the ship, where night was beginning to take hold, the deck was lit by large oil lamps, the orange glow illuminating the polished woods yet casting long shadows at the same time. It was within one of these shadows that she spied the outline of a figure leaning on the railing. She slowly descended the stairs, looking around for any of the crew. None were visible, the only hint to another person was the faint tune of a flute from high in the crow’s nest. Cautiously, she approached Abigail. 

“Sweetheart,” she called softly, “are you angry with me?”

“Not at you, love.” Abigail slid one hand from the railing, reached out behind her, fingers opening and closing impatiently, beckoning for Rose to take them in hers. She did not make her wait, clasping her hand in hers and leaning into her side, resting her head on her bare shoulder. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not just yet,” the younger witch’s voice was calm and cool. “I just want to feel you with me for for a little while.” 

Rose nodded, kissing her hand and looking out at the distant night sky. The days would grow shorter in time, how would this magical sky appear then? She saw again how the stars formed familiar shapes and wondered again how that was possible. It was summer back home, and though she had no way of knowing what might count as a date here, the constellations of the lion, crab and hydra were the same. 

“Counting stars again?”

“Observing them, they are same as they were back home.”

“Interesting.”

They remained in silence for a time, Abigail threading an arm around Rose’s waist and dropping a kiss on her forehead. The elder worried for her lover, but did not seek to pry. If space was needed, then she was happy to give it. But that did not stop a hundred horrid scenarios from running through her overactive imagination.

“Stop thinking, flower, you’ll work yourself up.”

“I’ll try not to, promise.”

Abigail subsided once more into silence, watching the sky change and cycle through its vibrant colours. Rose opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to find the right words but failing each time.

“I know you have something to say, you always do.”

“When you put it like that it makes me sound like a smart alec.”

“You are very intelligent, you know this.” Abigail cracked a smile, “And besides, I’m more likely to use the phrase _smartass_.”

“From you that’s quite the compliment,” Rose smirked. “I’m just at a loss for words...what happened back there? Gods what did I do?” She turned a bright red and looked away.

“No, no, no,” Abigail shook her head, curls rippling down her back, “Not you. Gods, not you.”

“I tried to make him come out here, he wouldn’t listen to me. Then I thought you might be angry with me, and he’s angry with me….what are we going to do?”

“No, I’m not…” Abigail’s voice trailed away, “Wait, why is he angry with you?”

“I might have...accused him of….having feelings.”

“Oh the _horror_ ,” Abigail smirked, a genuine glint of amusement in her pale eyes. 

“In my defense he’s the one who asked if we were even real! If that doesn’t speak of unsaid...something..then I don’t know what does,” she said fiercely then pouted. 

“No, you’re right,” the younger sorceress acknowledged, “The fault is his. What a surprise.”

“I feel like a teenage fangirl who just got a harsh dose of reality,” Rose sighed. “What do we do now?”

“You feel like a fangirl and I feel like a bitch.” Abigail flashed a dazzling smile, “Oh wait…” She winked and her smile slipped slightly. “I ought to apologize, oughtn’t I?”

“That might be a good idea,” she brought an arm about her waist to hold her close. “If it makes you feel any better I told him to apologize to you as well. That was an experience.”

“I bet it was,” grey-blue eyes avoided hazel ones and stared out across the water. “But I won’t apologise until he does. I won’t go crawling back to him, pleading for forgiveness.”

“What if neither of you have to actually say it out loud? I can attempt to mediate, say that you both wish to reconcile and all you have to do is agree. Because heaven forbid James Hook admit he did something stupid.”

“I doubt that would work,” Abigail’s lip curled. “He’ll appeal to your good graces and I’ll end up making the situation worse. Though…..” She took a moment to consider a new notion, an innocent smile on her face as she said carelessly, “Do you think he’s the type for hate sex?”

“Really?” Rose knew her mouth must be hanging open by now but didn’t really care. “He just finished drilling me into the chaise and you’re ready to bait him into hate sex?”

“I am a woman of no morals,” the dark-haired witch said with an idle shrug.

“I’m going to need lots of consoling after this.”

“You’re going to need it?” The younger witch scoffed, “With the blow I gave to his pride? He’ll be the one in need of comfort.”

“Oh I know, he tried as much right before I left the cabin. I just don’t want that claw of his ruining more than just the upholstery.”

“I’m sure he could find many uses for that claw,” diverting the conversation with innuendo was Abigail’s specialty. 

“We have only the clothes on our backs, I think we should at least give the appearance of keeping them in one piece,” the elder witch blushed at her own words. “Do you think it’s safe to go back inside?”

“Probably for you,” the words were accompanied by the shrug of one pale shoulder. 

“Shall we go back to our room then? Those walls aren’t terribly thick,” she looked up through half lidded eyes. “I’m sure he could hear quite clearly should we entertain ourselves without him.” 

“Tormenting the man with sounds of pleasure while he is left alone seems rather cruel, sweet Rose,” Abigail pretended to scold her before her eyes glinted, “Sounds like something I would suggest.”

“What can I say? You’re a terrible influence on me.”

“Perfectly horrid,” Abigail agreed, her free hand finding one of Rose’s breasts.

“Temptation incarnate,” she agreed, feeling for the hem of her dress. “To the bedroom?”

“To tease the captain,” the taller woman added, pulling Rose after her towards their cabin under the quarterdeck. They giggled, a little ominously as they barreled through the heavy portal, locking it behind them. Abigail’s back hit the door, Rose’s lips crashing against hers. She shoved her flimsy skirt up to her waist, pulled her panties down around her knees. Breaking their kiss, she held her fingers up to her lover’s red lips. Abigail’s tongue darted out, lapping and licking them as though she were savoring a sweet. When they were slick, Rose pulled her hand away to delve between her legs. She found her clit easily, swirling her fingertips around the tight bud and pulling little mewling sounds from Abigail in reward.

Pale arms snaked around Rose’s neck, deft hands made quick work of the tied halter bodice. Full breasts tumbled free, caught and fondled, she arched into their hold. Abigail tweaked and pinched at her nipples until they grew taut and hard. She trailed kisses down her lover’s throat, she could feel her frantic pulse beneath her lips. Lower she went, until she suckled the pink tip of one breast. Rose moaned aloud. And then dropped to her knees. 

“Minx.” Abigail looked down at her beloved, bare breasted and lusty, as she pulled her underwear down her legs, tossing it over her shoulder. 

“Always.” Rose rand her cheek over the soft flesh of her thigh, breathing deep the heady scent of her arousal. 

They were drunk on one another. The hazel eyed sorceress ran her long nails through the curls at the apex of her thighs, touching herself and shivering with little jolts of pleasure. And she knew she was being watched, could hear the sharp intake of breath as her lover watched her hand disappeared between her legs. 

“Are you wet?”

“Oh yes,” she nipped the tender skin just shy of her slit. Abigail hissed, her hands delving into her long hair, her tight nearly painfully tight. Rose gasped, goosebumps raising over her body. They both were weak for ecstasies blended with pain, eager to leave their mark on the other. 

“If you intend to please me down there, you better get to it or I’ll have you on your back in no time,” she jerked Rose’s head, bringing her mouth to her aching core. Rose hummed in delight, licking and tasting her. She drew her tongue along the slick lips, pressing at her entrance and laving at her clit in quick flicks that sent tremors up her lover’s body. Her free hand snaked up her inner thigh, scratching here and there, drawing bright red lines on pale white flesh. Slender fingers spread her lower lips wide, exposing her wet cunt to the cool air and Rose’s probing tongue. One finger toyed at her opening, dipping one knuckle deep, then pulling away, then pressing deeper again. Over and over she did this, and Abigail rolled her hips against her, trying to pull her inside. Rose chuckled against her. 

“Say please.”

“Not that easily,” Abigail shuddered and bit her lip. 

Rose sucked hard at her clit and she let out a high keening noise. 

“For our captain.” 

She thought of him, in the very next room, how he might have already heard them.

“Please! I want to feel you inside me,” she grinned as she cried out, remembering how she said that to him so many times in their dreams. And she found herself moaning loudly soon after, as Rose pressed one digit within her, curling and hitting that sweet spot that sent her eyes rolling back. Every lap of her tongue was matched with a pump of her finger. Her lover was breathing hard as well, looking down she saw Rose’s hand working furiously between her own legs. She wanted to taste her. “On your feet,” she panted. Rose looked up, her lips glistening, eyes darkened and cheeks flushed. 

“You haven’t cum.”

“I want you on the bed.” 

She came to her feet and they all but tore their dresses from one another in their haste. They fell upon the narrow bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. The headboard slammed back against the wall, a loud bang that echoed in the room and was surely heard in the large cabin nearby. Rose landed on her side, auburn hair spilling across the white sheets. Abigail knelt, looking down upon her, illuminated by the moonlight. She lay down on her side as well, head towards the footboard. Her thighs opened wide, soft hands curled around them Rose’s eager mouth fell upon her again. She groaned, shuddering and whimpering at the heat that was building low in her core. Roughly she spread her lover’s legs, pulled her tightly against her, her head cradled by her soft thighs and ran her tongue up the dripping slit. Rose cried out, her sweet voice muffled and mewling. So Abigail did it again, savoring the taste of her. 

And then nearly shrieked as Rose sucked hard on her clit. 

“Too slow,” Rose scolded.

Abigail did not have to be told twice. Done with any light caresses, she wanted to hear the passion filled screams of her girlfriend as she buried her face between her legs. Rose returned the favor. 

It was a contest, who could bring the other to orgasm faster. But no matter how devoted they were to the task, their lips would fall away from sweet flesh to loose cries of ecstasy which echoed out the open window. Rose began to tremble first, her pale legs quivering, her breath turning to a rough pant that had her full bosom rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.

“Yes,” Abigail blew her cool breath over her heated quim and giggled darkly at the little mewling noises she made. “Let him hear you.”

“Oh gods,” her hands clung to her fiercely, sure to leave marks come morning. 

“I remember a dream where I was eating your pussy and he was fucking your mouth, remember that?” Rose could not form words, plunging two fingers inside her instead and Abigail let out a throaty laugh. 

“Wouldn’t you just love to do that now?” She scissored her fingers inside her hazel eyed lover, enjoying how her hips rocked in tandem with her prying digits. Her tongue swirled around her sensitive nub, pressing hard and flicking with quick little motions. Rose was desperately toying with her too, their sounds of pleasure rising together. 

“As if you wouldn’t want the same,” she gasped, pumping her fingers in and out of her cunt, curling them to hit her sweet spot over and over. Abigail let out a long, heady moan that was music to Rose’s ears. She drove her up and up, their sweat slicked bodies rubbing against each other, the scent of sex heavy in the air. 

In the end, they came crashing down together. All desperate cries and trembling bodies clutching to each other as the aftershocks ran like lightning through them both. For some time they lay there, immobile and limp, basking in the glow of satisfaction. The younger moved first, slowly turning her still shaking body to lay in line with the elder’s. They helped one another lay out on sheets, gently easing one another down from their blissful height, leaving trails of gentle kisses and soft caresses along the way. Rose opened her arms and Abigail lay within them, her head pressed to her breast right above her heart. 

“Do you think he heard?” Rose whispered, her voice a little hoarse from her loud moaning, her long nails running down her spine and making her shiver. 

“Oh I think so,” Abigail smiled and kissed her nipple, delighting in how she twitched under her.

“I shall sleep well, knowing that.” 

***

Abigail rose early, for once. The sun streaming through the porthole warmed her face and she stretched lazily. There was a deep ache in her bones which told her she had slept very deeply. Rose was nestled against her shoulder, one arm thrown over her waist, still very fast asleep. Her breast rose and fell with a gentle rhythm and Abigail looked down at her sweet face with a fond smile. Her fingers stroked Rose’s auburn hair and Rose mumbled something in her sleep. Abigail smiled and disentangled herself from her lover’s arms, rising from the bed. She slipped into her summer dress, the clothing stiff from the salt of the sea air. But it was the only covering she had on this ship and would wear it for as long as necessary. 

She slipped from the cabin, barefoot with hair unbound, and moved silently across the deck. Cecco stood at the helm, dozing. She crept past him. His eyes cracked open and she placed a finger to her lips, to which he nodded and dozed off again. 

The door to the Captain’s cabin opened easily and closed silently behind her. The sunlight filtered lazily through the window-panes, casting a soft golden glow across everything. It was quiet and seemed empty. She took a step into the room. There, on the raised sleeping gallery of his cabin, thrown across his expansive bed, was the body of James Hook. He was deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling. His hook had been discarded and hung on the far corner of the headboard, within reach if necessary, but not lashed to his torso. 

The wooden steps to the balcony, though carpeted with lush red wool, still creaked ever so slightly as she put her weight upon them. But the pirate did not stir, so she crept ever closer. She moved to the side of the mattress opposite him and carefully tucked the hem of her skirt under her as she slowly perched on the edge of the mattress. 

Even in sleep, James Hook did not look peaceful. There was a tightness to his jaw, clenching his teeth as he inhaled, and a deep furrow between his brow. Dark curls spilled across the red coverlet and she was tempted to trail her fingertips across his brow, to smooth away the wrinkles of his worry as he slept. 

The shifting of the mattress from the added weight stirred the pirate. He inhaled sharply, his instincts prickling the back of his neck as he blearily looked around to see what had awoken him. He caught a glimpse of the sorceress from the corner of his eye and twisted, pushing himself up and away from her to sit up. She sat near to his hook, if he wanted to reach for it, he would have to move through her. 

“I am sorry to disturb your sleep,” she said quietly, her low voice subdued in the empty cabin.

“You didn’t seem to be so concerned last night,” he responded at once, his voice rough and ragged from sleep. 

Her hair was unbound, he noticed. She did not wear the strange clip to pull the curls away from her face, and her locks spilled over her shoulders and bosom. There was something about the way the sunlight was falling across the drapes behind her that gave her face a soft, youthful glow. Her eyes were a bright, sparkling blue and he swallowed. She was beautiful. So was her lover. But the two of them were alone. 

And there was tension between them. The residual strain from the evening before stretched between them and he was compelled to do something to break the stillness. He pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his stump distractedly and looking down at her. She did not move, barely blinked, only continued to watch him with her pale eyes. 

He cleared his throat, “Can I offer you some refreshment, Madam?”

“No,” she said, her voice still the same soft, quiet tone as before, “No refreshment, no distractions, just us.”

“Just us?” He echoed, painfully aware of the implications of such a phrase coming from a scantily clad woman lounging upon his bed. Granted, she was not lounging so much as sitting expectantly. He had foregone his boots and his shirt when he had thrown himself across his bed the night before to satisfy himself in tandem with the moans and cries he could hear from the ladies’ cabin. He stood before one of those ladies now in naught but his loosened breeches and she in little more than a shift. He twitched within his pants in spite of himself. 

She rose, breasts swelling with her inhale. He forcibly stopped himself from any sort of fidgeting, standing as still as he could as she stepped toward him. She moved within his sphere of personal space, looking up at him from under her thick lashes. 

“I was correct in what I said yesterday,” she said. He made to step away but her hand reached out to press against the lean muscle of his warm chest. “But I did not admit that I spoke from my own experiences.”

His jaw clenched as he looked down at her. 

“I accused you of using sex as a way to distract yourself from the loneliness of your being,” she said, dropping her eyes to look at where her pale fingers splayed against his tanned chest, “But I neglected to acknowledge that the reason I blamed you for it was because I do the same. I have a suspicion that you and I are quite similar, Captain, and I suppose I was not exactly in the best form yesterday in my allegations against you.”

“Is this your way of apologizing, my lady?”

“I admit, I’m not very good at it,” she confessed with a scrunch of her nose. 

“Well, I might admit,” he said, “I also might have been excessively vicious in my responses to you as well. I believe that you would be correct in thinking that the two of us are incredibly similar.” 

She flashed a quick, shy smile. This was a new side of her that he had yet to see. Her sharp tongue was not wounding his pride, there was no glint to her blue eyes that spoke of her cruel wit. In this light, in this morning, in this moment, she was softer, gentle, more delicate. _Fragile_ , he thought, fragile in the way that something which had already been broken was susceptible to more cracks. It was a vulnerability that he knew intimately well, it was the brittleness of his own being that he saw reflected within her and he felt the distressing flutter of feelings in his black heart. His fingers lifted to brush across her cheek and her blue eyes flicked upward to meet his. 

Her lips were perfect for kisses, he noticed. Of course, in their dreams, he had taken his fill of kisses but she was standing here before him, revealing some part of her hidden tenderness that silently pleaded with him to kiss her, to kiss her concern away. So he did. 

It was gentle, his arms sliding around her, enveloping her in his strength and his comfort. He bent his head with a slowness that allowed her to pull away if she wished, but she made no move to do so, only pressed herself closer. Their lips met, a soft sweet brush against the other’s and he held her to his chest. His fingers stroked her riotous curls and her hand crept up to cup his cheek. He lost himself in the feel of her mouth, the soft press of her body, the tenderness of the embrace. He had not been held in such a gentle manner for longer than he could remember. Nigh three-hundred years since anyone had touched him or kissed him with compassion or gentleness. He clung to her like she was keeping him afloat and she, not needing an explanation to why his arms tightened around her because she understood, held him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply. 

He stood with her now, without his hook and without his brace. His arm was bare, he did not wear the armour and the weapon of The Hook. He stood there just as he was, nothing more and nothing less. In this moment, he was not Hook. He was just James. And she accepted him for what he was.

They didn’t know how to apologise with their words. Words failed them when they were anything less than threats and silver courtesies. So they made their apologies with their bodies. His bed welcomed them and they worked together to free each other of what little fabric was left separating them. Her dress was cast to the carpet, his breeches were dropped to the side, and they looked at each other. They had seen each other more times than they could count in their dreams but now they could touch and truly feel. He ran his hand down her arm; her skin was soft and pale. He felt profane, touching something so beautiful with his blasphemous hand - a hand which had drawn blood and destroyed now caressed with wonder a woman who was too beautiful and broken for him to ever have deserved. 

She looked up at him, blue eyes meeting blue eyes as she took in the sight of him - scarred and maimed and beaten down, and yet filled with grace and elegance. She ran her fingers down his other arm - the one ending in the stump. Instantly, he drew away. 

“James,” she protested gently. He looked down at her, bare and earnest, and he hesitantly returned his stump to her touch. She bent her head to press a soft kiss to the scarred flesh and bone and he released a soft sigh. His stump ought never to touch that which had been blessed - his very touch corrupted and destroyed. But she pulled him closer, winding her arms around him, and he drank in her beauty. He sank down again upon the bed, kissing his way from her lips to her breasts. Full and soft, he pressed his sea-roughened skin into her pale flesh, taking her nipple into his mouth with a tender suck. She gasped, her spine arching to press her breast further against his face. Her hand came up to cradle the back of his head, threading her fingers through his curls, and his own hand rested securely at the curve of her waist, pulling her torso against him so that he could savour her in all the ways he wished. 

He could smell her arousal and when he looked up at her face, her pupils were wide and dark. Her lip was plump and red from where she had bitten it in her pleasure and his head dipped between her legs to taste her. His tongue brushed across her clit and she gasped, her thighs spreading even wider, offering herself to him. She tasted of lust, of the musky desire that lurks in the pit of one’s stomach. She tasted of woman, of the heady power that women wield over men. She tasted of dreams, of the unions in Dreamland which had brought them all together to begin with. 

His fingers slid inside of her and her head fell back against the pillows. He caressed the inside of her sex, searching. When his fingers found the sweet spot inside of her, she let out a low keen, tightening around his fingers. Some part of him was content simply to bring her to pleasure, to make this his apology, to give her ecstasy and to himself go without. 

But then she looked down at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, glowing with the beauty of bliss, and she whispered her plea “James, _please._ ”

He could refuse her nothing. He could refuse neither of the women and he knew it. So he took her into his arms and pressed his manhood inside of her. He caught her moan with his mouth and she clutched him closer as she tasted herself on his lips and tongue. His strokes were sure and steady. They had all the time in the world, there was no need to rush. This was their apology to each other. Her gasps of pleasure, pressed against his neck, were music to his ears and when her head fell back, her eyes fluttering with the pleasure he was giving to her, he pressed kisses to her throat. 

He laid her back upon the mattress, his hand once more touching her reverently as his hips moved carefully to thrust within her. Her legs wrapped around his waist to pull him deeper.

“I am _not_ fragile,” she whispered to him, pale face framed by dark curls. “There is no need for you to be gentle.”

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he replied, surprising even himself with his tenderness. 

She reached up to press her hand to his cheek, “I have been hurt before. This is a kind of pain I relish.”

He buried himself within her and she arched with a cry, her nails clutching him to her. He braced himself against the bed with his stump as his other hand found her breast, trailing down her waist and pulling her thigh harder against his hip. Her body welcomed him, her wet heat enveloping him and tightening with every shudder of pleasure he gave to her. Kissing her neck and shoulder, a groan slipped past his lips as he reached between her legs to massage her nub. 

Her toes curled and a throaty “ _Yes_ ” fell from her lips. She looked up at him, eyes bright, a smile on her lips as the pleasure built within her. With each thrust of his cock inside her, he watched as her cheeks darkened, her eyes widened, reading the orgasm hurtling closer. Her muscles tightened around him, her nails digging into his back, and a groan fell from his lips. 

He could feel her trembling underneath him and he captured her lips with a crushing, possessive kiss. She arched, coiling tight as his finger circled her clit, her lashes fluttering as the pleasure became unbearable. It felt as though she could explode. And she did, stars bursting before her eyes as her orgasm crashed upon her. 

“ _James_ ,” she gasped as she climaxed. 

Her walls clenched around him, quivering with her release, and he could not keep himself back from spilling within her. He felt his seed fill her and he released a groan of pleasure, burying his head in the crook of her neck. Her breast heaved as she found her breath again and he relished her trembling gasps as she quivered beneath him. There were no words necessary, they both knew that they were forgiven. 

“So this is where you went!”

Rose stood in the centre of the cabin, one arm keeping the cabin-bunk sheet around her naked form and the other fist resting firmly on her generous hip. James and Abigail looked away from each other to Rose and Abigail’s musical laugh bubbled from her lips, she couldn’t help it. 

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Rose pouted, “I woke up alone!”

“Sorry, Rose,” Abigail giggled. “The Captain and I had business to attend to.”

“Clearly!”

Rose’s hazel eyes finally looked over at James who was focused very firmly on Rose’s sheet-covered body.

“What?” Rose snapped half-heartedly. 

“Are you naked under that?”

“Lech!” Abigail smacked his shoulder with a grin. 

“Even if I was I wouldn’t be telling you,”she clutched the sheet tighter, raising a brow at the quickly hardening length under their own sheet. “Is that a pistol under there or are you just happy to see me?” Her girlfriend giggled, he looked confused. “Now that I know where Abigail vanished to I’ll return to my room.”

“Now why would you want to do that?” He asked in a voice smooth as silk.

“Because you two are obviously busy and I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting anything, love,” Abigail reached for her. “Come join us.” Rose simply raised a brow, walking up the few short steps to the gallery which held the massive bed. 

“I don’t know, you seem to have already spent him for the moment,” she looked as if she were examining him like a specimen under glass. “It is probably best to let him rest for now.” Her eyes met Abigail’s and while he was too busy gaping incredulously at Rose, something passed between the two women. 

“Oh yes,” Abigail nodded emphatically from under him. “We had quite the invigorating workout, he’ll need some time to recover.”

“Poor dear.”

“I on the other hand am more than ready to...assist you in your early morning exercise,” she made a show of raking her eyes over Rose’s figure. Throughout the exchange Hook said nothing. 

“Well then do not keep me waiting, darling.” Abigail slipped out from beneath the captain, wriggling free of the silk sheets and sliding to her feet. She crossed the short distance to meet her lover, her hips swaying with every step. They kissed, long and leisurely. Roving hands pulled Rose close, running across her curves and tugging at the thin sheet until it began to slip. Hook lay upon the bed, the covers riding low on his hips. Cold, narrow eyes took in the scene before him. His good arm crossed his belly, the long fingers tapping a steady beat. It was the only sign of agitation he would allow himself. Teases they were, sharp tongued vixens. Though lovely, the long haired witch was playing with fire in insulting him. His breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of one plump breast revealed by Abigail’s eager caresses. 

“Shall we return to our room?” Rose said lowly against her lips. 

“What about darling James?”

“You said that he was far too exhausted to be bothered with us,” she cupped her round arse and pulled her hips tight against her own. His hand clenched into a fist. 

“Heaven forbid we exert the poor man beyond his limits.”

“Quite right,” hazel eyes locked with his. “He may well be three centuries past his prime.” 

Abigail’s hand pressed against her own mouth to stifle the gasp of laughter that almost escaped. As her hands left Rose’s body, Rose’s heavy breasts were bared to James’ eyes. Abigail managed a chiding, “It’s too early to be offending him, Rose.”

“I think I’m safe,” Rose replied, “He’s not _armed_ , anyway.”

Abigail snorted. 

Hook had heard enough of that. He sprang up, the silk pooling dangerously low on his lap. 

“Abigail,” he snapped, the women turning their falsely innocent eyes to him. “Fetch my harness and hook.”

“Eager to start the day?” The blue eyed witch raised a dark brow. 

“In a certain sense.”

Abigail obeyed, pulling the harness down from where it hung on the beautifully carved headboard. She helped slip it onto his arm, watching him as he put on the Hook and became Hook with the clip of the leather straps upon the harness, securing them around his chest. She reached cautious hands out to brush against the leather. His hand caught her wrist and his blue eyes pierced into hers. No longer was he James, but the fearsome and powerful Jas Hook. 

“Bring her to me.”

Abigail once again obeyed, taking Rose’s hand and pulling her toward their captain. Rose, a blush staining her cheeks, stumbled on the sheet as she approached, her mouth gone dry. He stood above her, looking down at her, and she felt the arousal surge between her legs in spite of herself. 

“I am now armed,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. “Dost thou still think that thou art safe?”

“No,” she answered him in a small voice. Abigail’s blue eyes flicked between the captain and her Rose, anticipation clearly on her face. She could feel the dynamic shift in the air and she bit her lip. 

“Sit down,” he commanded coolly. Abigail flashed Rose a smirk and obeyed, easing herself down onto the wing-backed chair in the corner. Left relatively alone with the Captain, Rose clutched her sheet tighter around herself. He clicked his tongue reprovingly, “None of that. Let me see what is mine.”

Abigail’s grin widened and Hook’s hand twisted in the sheet to pull it from Rose’s body. She gasped, shivering in delight at the callous way he bared her naked body. 

“Too pale,” he observed, his hand caressing her arse. “Let’s get some rosiness to those cheeks. What say you?”

“Oh yes,” Abigail answered, lounging in the chair as if it were a throne. Rose gulped, knowing what was to come. His hand fisted in her long hair and she yelped. He bore her to her knees, pushing her down over the footstool of the chair so that she could look up at her girlfriend’s face. 

The first strike came and she yelped. 

***

Noodler pressed his ear to the door of the captain’s cabin, his ruddy face ashen with fear as he listened to the screams and pained groans coming from within the cabin. He had never heard the captain make those sounds. The women were also making strange cries.

“They are casting a wicked curse upon him,” he whispered in concern to his companions. “They have to be. It’s dark magick, we should do something.”

“I do not think that is what is happening, _amico_ ,” Cecco said, leaning casually against the railing of the ship. “And I definitely do not think the _capitano_ would appreciate an interruption.”

An ululating cry echoed from within the cabin and the crew shuddered. 

“They themselves confessed to being witches,” Starkey grunted, “Maybe Scourie was right and we should have tossed them off the ship right then and there.”

“We saw how well that worked out for ‘im,” Cookson hissed, jerking his thumb to where Scourie - still refusing to speak - was staring at nothing, his hands pressed over his ears. 

“I promise you, the _capitano_ is just fine.” Cecco said dismissively. 

A loud groan reached their ears, sounding very much like the captain. 

“We have to do something,” Noodler insisted, “I don’t much fancy the idea of the captain being slaughtered for some dark sacrifice by two witches!”

“ _Idiota_ ,” Cecco said. He knew what those sounds were and he knew better than to interrupt. But the rest of the crew were too flustered at the imagined predicament of their captain. 

A shriek pierced the air and the bullies made up their minds. 

They crashed through the door to the cabin, daggers and pistols drawn to protect their captain.

What they found made them shriek in turn. Several of them covered their eyes, more of them just stared with wide eyes and gaping mouths. That was probably the poorer choice.

The dark haired witch lay on her back upon the large bed, propped up on the mountain of pillows at the headboard. Her pale skin was flushed, eyes shut tight, generous lips open mid moan. Between her legs, spread wide across the scarlet sheets, was the auburn witch on all fours. Her face was hidden from sight, buried between the woman’s thighs, a gleaming hook pressed against the back of her neck. The captain knelt behind her, his hand gripping her hip, bruises already darkening her creamy skin. He had just thrust into her, a harsh groan escaping his gritted teeth, the women sighing and moaning, when they heard the small army crashing into the room. 

Abigail shrieked, covering herself with a pillow. Rose fell with a cry when her lover was startled, a thin line of blood appearing where the hook scratched her. Hook watched as she touched her wound, smearing the crimson across her pale flesh and turned to the door with a snarl. 

“What. Are. You. Doing?” He enunciated each and every word, his voice cold and icy as a blizzard. 

The pirates trembled in fear. 

“Answer me!”

They screamed, high pitched and screeching like children.

“Savin’ you Cap’n!” Noodler shrieked.

Hook stared at them blankly.

“You what?”

The witches cuddled close, hiding their naked bodies from the sailors, unlike their lover who didn’t seem to rightly care at the moment. Now they too were gaping at the crew, armed to the teeth and squirming under their leader’s infuriated gaze. 

“We heard horrid sounds, we did,” one of them managed to finally say after several stuttering attempts.

“Thought those she-devils were tryin’ to put some dark curse on you,” another pointed a dirty finger at them. 

“The only power at work here would be what the French call _le petit mort_ ,” Hook said dryly with a curl of his lip. 

“So...you ain’t in danger then, sir?” The captain breathed heavily through his nose, pinching the bridge between two fingers. 

“You have until I count to three to evacuate yourselves,” he said lowly, reaching under the mattress and producing a loaded pistol. “One,” he cocked it with his hook. His crew looked on in terror but seemed to be frozen in place. “Two,” his left arm stretched out, wrist bent slightly, taking aim. Now the men started to panic, nearly tripping over each other on their way to the door. The final man had just ran out when he finally uttered, “three.” 

“Is that a pistol under there or are you just happy to see me,” Abigail quipped. 

“It was a pistol,” Rose giggled.


	7. Eye of the Beholder

Seven days came and went. The crew never dared to walk into the cabin again unless expressly invited. Noodler especially kept his distance from the captain but even more so from the women. He was convinced that they had laid some powerful spell upon their fearsome leader, stating that it was unnatural how besotted he had become. It was terrifying how he...smiled so often. Amongst the men he would try to garner others to his side, but really the only one who listened avidly and truly believed him was George Scourie. During the day the witches would practice their magic, much to the awe and fright of the pirates. Abigail had summoned a smattering of rain that soaked the deck in a tiny downpour that lasted a quarter of an hour. Rose drew forth a wind that caught poor Smee as he hung laundry across the foredeck, the shirt he held inflating like a sail. And to all this, the captain applauded. Well, applauded in his own unique, one handed, manner. Then in the evenings the sounds of music and….other things could be heard from behind the barred door of the cabin. 

From the perspective of the three individuals involved, the distance of the crew was merely amusement. They laughed about it over tea in the afternoons. The ladies, growing tired of wearing their now ruined dresses, took it upon themselves to raid his wardrobe. He found the sight of them in his clothes to be something he greatly enjoyed. Mornings were spent in a lazy tangle of silk sheets and entwining limbs. With a blessed lack of Pan sightings, Hook was free to enjoy his sorceresses as much as his black heart desired. And enjoy he did. One could almost say he was happy. As happy as a villain like him was allowed to be, that is. And he found it quite odd how easily he settled in to having the women in his cabin and in his life. 

It was an odd notion, having dinner together every night. It was almost _domestic_. James tried not to tarry on such notions overly long. But he could admit that it was refreshing to have company each evening, and it did not hurt that said company was lovely and spirited. But tonight he noticed something unusual. The women, despite their higher education and obvious good breeding, loved to spend hours in the kitchen. The poor cook was rather put out when they invaded his domain but over time so many recipies had been exchanged that the man looked on them as welcome helpers. So when he noticed that Rose was not filling her plate and refusing her usual dessert three nights in a row, he was more than a little concerned. 

“Rose, darling, are you feeling ill?” She looked up at his question, a confused expression on her face. 

“No, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t been eating these last few days.” He pointed with his knife, which was really an attachment to his arm, towards her half empty dinner plate. 

“Oh,” she looked down at her meager helping of chicken and spiced apricots. “I just haven’t been hungry.”

“Tell the truth,” Abigail scolded from across the table as she cut viciously into a pile of roasted vegetables. Hook looked to the women on either side of him, eyes narrowing. He did not like to be left unknowing in any conversation. They were privy to something that he was not and it left him feeling perturbed. 

“What truth is this? I will not tolerate lies on my ship, especially concerning you two.”

“I’m just watching my weight,” Rose said, sounding rather exasperated. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re what?”

“She’s trying not to eat so much,” Abigail explained rather plainly with a slight edge to her voice. “We love what Cookie makes for us but she thinks it’s too rich for her to eat every day.”

“It’s not a big deal, I used to plan meals very carefully on the Mainland.”

“What reason on any earth would give you cause to think that you needed to mind what you ate?” He asked his Rose, who turned to him with a surprised look. “And that goes for you as well,” he pointed to Abigail. “Did some small minded plebian insult you? Or is the world so changed that beauty is a notion of ages past?” Both his women had the good sense to blush at that. 

“Beauty is as coveted as it ever was,” Rose said, looking strangely unsure all the sudden, it did not sit well with him. “But the ideal modern woman is a far cry from the Baroque era, that I can guarantee.” 

“Is that so? Then do tell, sweetling, what makes you so unfit for such a title that you would think to starve yourself?” Rose squirmed in her seat, her utensils forgotten at her plate. From the opposite side of the table, their lover sat back with a contemplative expression. There was a wealth of untold secrets here, he could sense it. 

“Where we come from,” the elder witch began, “there is an inundation of images of the female body. Advertisements, entertainment, you really cannot escape it. And what is considered beautiful is pushed on girls from a very young age. But it’s an impossible standard for most of us to meet and after so many years of comparing yourself to such ideals, it weighs heavy on you.”

“We’re not thin,” Abigail said crisply. “And we’re pale. The glasses are sometimes an issue too. In short, we’re not what society says we should be.” He stared at them, letting their descriptions of the modern world sink into his brilliant mind. 

“Surely you are not saying that either of you think yourselves to be...rotund?” He skirted around the word which nearly fell from his lips, not wanting to insult his ladies.

“You mean fat? I’ve been called that over the years,” Rose admitted.

“And it’s not unusual for us to have had bad days where we think it ourselves,” Abigail shrugged. 

“You cannot be serious.” He looked from one to the other but neither made any sign of refuting him. “Has the world gone upside down? If you are,” he felt repulsed just saying it, “ugly, then what does your society consider attractive?” 

“Slender waists, slim hips, tanned skin” Abigail ticked each off on her fingers. “Protruding collar and hipbones and a gap between the thighs. Does that about cover it?” Rose nodded, pushing her plate away, suddenly looking rather sullen. 

“With a preference for blond, if we’re going for historical accuracy,” she reached for her wine glass and made to take a long draught. He covered it with his hand, forcing her to set it back upon the golden tablecloth. 

“I do not need your magical powers to see how pained you are from this,” she hid her face behind her long hair as he spoke. “You never showed unhappiness with your appearance before, least of all in my presence. Why the sudden care now?”

“I just didn’t want to overeat, that’s all…” she peeked up at him. “And it’s nothing new.” Thank goodness she was not brought to tears, he was not sure he could have handled that with the finesse needed to soothe a sobbing woman. But there was pain in her eyes, an old pain with no small amount of self loathing. He could recognize it well, for he often saw that same dark cloud in himself.

“I have been telling her for ages that she’s gorgeous,” Abigail said. “And she does the same for me. Sometimes the bad self image just strikes out of nowhere.” 

“Rose,” he called her softly, she turned slowly to face him fully. “There is nothing I would change about you even if I had all the magic to do so. For either of you. I have no interest in waifs, your bountiful curves haunted my dreams in ways no slender stick could ever hope for.” He slid her plate back into place, filling it to the brim with a little of everything from their dinner spread. “Now I won’t have you going hungry another night. Eat, my dear.”

“Or we’ll have to hold you down and feed you ourselves.” Abigail grinned over the rim of her goblet.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Rose looked incredulously at her lovers as a fork was placed in her hand. 

“Would you like it to be?” James grinned, rather like a shark.

“Because that could be arranged,” their lady slowly licked her lips.

“If you want me to eat than let me eat,” the auburn haired witch muttered, starting to cut into her meal. He watched as she finally ate, still ruminating over the world which had somehow convinced his mistresses that they were not the epitome of loveliness. 

“Do you truly not know how exquisite you are?” Rose’s cheeks turned red as her namesake at his words.

“You’re biased,” she tried to jest. 

“That’s what she always says to me,” Abigail frowned. “I saw you looking in the mirror today, when you thought I wasn’t watching. You were unhappy with what you saw, though I will never understand why.” He turned his gaze on her, curious and slightly infuriated that such a fine creature would ever look upon herself with disdain. 

“Explain,” he commanded. Rose shot an accusative glare at her lover who only raised her brows in challenge. Then she sighed, shoulders slumping, taking a few slow bites as she appeared to consider her words. 

“I have been trying to lose weight for some time. Not a lot,” she added quickly at the cold looks that were being sent her way. “But I have always been conscious about my body, some days more than most….”

“And why would that be?” He asked, leaning forward.

“It’s crazy!” she gripped her napkin until the fibers threatened to snap. “I feel confident often enough while I’m unattached,” a humorless laugh fell from her lips. “But when someone actually notices me I look in the mirror and all I see is...some troll. And I wonder why anyone would take a second glance at me…” Rose trailed off, staring into her lap. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me….excuse me,” she stood suddenly, the chair catching on the rug and she shoved it aside. She was trying to run away. He was up before she had made it three steps. His arms were like bands of iron, she would not be able to break free of his embrace even if she tried. Though she did not fight him, merely stood there, her back flush to his chest and the barest touch of her fingertips to his wrist. 

“There is naught wrong with you, little one,” he pressed his cheek to her soft hair, breathing in the scent of flowers that always clung to her. “And any that try to convince you otherwise may take their grievances up with me.” Behind him, he could hear Abigail stirring, felt one of her arms wrap round his middle as the other held Rose to her. She laid her head in the crook of her neck, kissing the soft skin and causing their lady to shiver.

“Beautiful, perfect creature that you are,” his blue eyed mistress cooed. “How lucky we are to have you.” Rose lost the tension that had overcome her, settling into their shared embrace easily and happily. Her hand on his wrist tightened its hold, her warm lips placing a kiss there. 

“Never forget how we adore you, my sweet French belle, never.” 

***

“I’m bored.” 

Abigail was sprawled on the bed, head hanging off the edge of the footboard, dark curls brushing the carpet. “We’ve spent so much time in this gods-damned cabin and on this gods-damned ship that I can walk it blindfolded. I want to _explore!_ ”

Rose looked up from the book she was reading, “Explore?”

Abigail twisted to prop herself up onto her elbows, “We’re not even a mile from the Island and we’ve never set foot on it. If it’s as beautiful as the old wives’ tales said it is, then I want to _see_.”

“James told us about the dangers,” Rose said warningly and Abigail scoffed. 

“Little brats dangerous to the Hook they hate but to women? Hardly. The most danger we might be in would be from them begging us to sew them pockets,” Abigail pushed herself off the bed, “Come on, Rose, don’t you want to see the Island? See how beautiful it is and try to find all the magical creatures he told us about? Please?”

Rose looked indecisive and Abigail tossed her hair in anger, “If you want to stay here and read that book for the third time, then fine. But I’m going. Even if I have to swim!”

“I won’t allow that,” Rose exclaimed, tossing the book aside and getting to her feet, “No, if you’re going, I’ll go with you.”

“Afraid I’ll get lost without you?” Abigail’s voice was scathing, “Remember, I’m the one who can actually read a map.”

“I don’t think anyone’s actually charted this island, so yeah you might get lost,” Rose shot back, reaching for the boots James had found for her. Abigail was already dressed from a late night scamper through the rigging and she waited impatiently for Rose to swing her coat around her shoulders. Abigail cinched the black sash around the waist of her blue coat and flashed a grin. 

“How do you propose we get off the ship without him seeing?” Rose asked.

“I don’t really care.” Abigail said, “We could enlist the help of one of the crew. What about that surgeon? Dr. Blake? He’s not like Smee, who would go running to the captain to tattle. We can take him.”

Rose considered this as she slipped the brass buttons on her coat through the buttonholes. “I suppose….”

“Make up your mind quickly,” Abigail said, slipping out the door, “I’ll be leaving with or without you.” And she closed the door silently behind her. 

The surgeon agreed to the request - out of fear of the witch’s powers, a sense of nobility to protect the ladies, or fear of the captain’s wrath should the women go off alone and harm befall them, who can say? Rose scampered after Abigail as the long boat was lowered, the latter smirking knowingly as they boarded. The captain was nowhere in sight but the other longboat was missing. Each of the witches took notice but did not have time to contemplate the fact. They reached the island quickly, rowing with the tide rather than against it. The sun was shining, the clouds puffy like marshmallows, the sea perfect aqua blue. Under the surface of the waves swam silver fish that leaped into the air, their wide fins spread like wings. When the prow of the little boat hit the shore Abigail hopped out instantly, uncaring how the water was still half way up her leg when she leaped out and began slogging through the white capped waves. She was admiring the tree line as Dr. Blake pulled the longboat in and tied it to a nearby palm. 

“Beyond the edge of this cove is the outlet of Kidd’s Creek,” the surgeon explained. “Which flows from the volcano at the center of the island. For reference, this is Pirate’s Cove.”

“How original,” Abigail said snarkily. 

“Is the volcano active?” Rose asked, eyeing the tall peak in the distance. 

“It smokes from time to time but in all my years sailing the Never Sea, it has yet to actually erupt.” That was a soothing statement, at least they wouldn’t be out-running lava any time soon. 

“Where shall we be exploring?” The older woman queried as she looked over a peculiar flowering shrub. 

“We’ll follow the creek into the jungle, there’s a path along the water’s edge. Do not leave the path,” he said sternly, leading them into the dense trees. “I can’t be having you go getting lost, I like my throat as it is - unslashed with my artery intact.”

“Well, we like you with your pulse too, Dr. Blake,” Abigail grinned as they followed him and the path began to take shape amongst the roots and dead leaves. The sound of rushing water had been faint for the first ten minutes or so as they walked but now was growing ever louder. Kidd’s Creek was a decently wide river, despite its name. 

“It’s actually rather deep toward the middle,” their guide explained. “There are crossings along the way but they are few and far between. And after a storm the current is something swift, you don’t want to be caught up in it, you’ll be washed out to sea in no time at all.” 

“Which area of the island is the _Jolly Roger_ anchored on?” Abigail asked. 

“The far southern end. To the east is Mermaid’s Lagoon,” both women perked up and he chuckled. “They’re not the pretty creatures from children’s fairy tales, mistresses. Those devil fish will sweetly drown you if you get too close. Though as witches, mayhap you be immune to their charms.”

“Do they sing?” The younger had an excited gleam in her pale eyes. 

“Oh that they do, especially on the nights where the moon is full.” Between them, the sorceresses shared a silent conversation, their eyes agreeing that this lagoon was in need of a visit in the near future. “Now to the far north sits the Black Castle. No one knows who built it but by the time we arrived it was already a flooded ruin. There are several caches of supplies there, as well as Marooner’s Rock.”

“A pirate’s execution place,” Rose answered Abigail’s raised brow. “When one is sentenced to die he is chained to a rock at low tide and slowly drowns as the water comes back higher and higher.” Their trek continued through the jungle. It was odd but the humidity that one usually associates with such a tropical place was not so overwhelming. Rather, it was a pleasant day, even with the sun bearing down, but at least the canopy provided a wealth of shade. 

“And to the west lies the the Indian camp, far off in a glade that abuts the sea and jungle. If one goes towards the center of the island and hang east, that’s where the hot springs are, close to the source of the river. And somewhere around that place is the pixie’s home.” The witches took either side of the doctor now.

“What are these pixies like?”

“Are they aligned with Pan like in the stories?” The doctor held up a fallen branch so that they might pass through the path easily, using his walking stick to hold the partly broken bramble aloft. Birds sang around them, the sound of scurrying animals surrounded them. Never had the witches ever been in such a pristine example of nature, not even in the parks back home.

“Pixies are tiny things, some mistake them for fireflies at night what with their glow. They leave a trail of dust as they flit past, that’s the stuff that makes one fly. And as far as we know only one winged beastie is loyal to Pan. The rest seem to tolerate him, maybe they see him as a cousin or some such thing. But they ain’t his army or anything like that.” 

“Could we see them?” The witches asked in unison. Before Dr. Blake could answer a slew of unexpected events all converged at once. Rose’s attention was stolen by a flickering ball of light that darted from the tree tops to hover about her head. Abigail’s gaze was turned to the fauna along the path, rustling and moving with speed as a blur of black and white shot out towards her. The pirate watched as the auburn haired witch caught the twinkling speck with a blow her breath, the wind catching the fairy in a slow spinning little whirlwind. Meanwhile a nasty badger revealed itself only to hurry away as Abigail hissed at the creature, holding its prey, a small cat, close to her chest.

“A fairy!”

“A kitten!”

The women exclaimed to each other excitedly. Then upon hearing what the other had found, quickly switched their discoveries. Rose cuddled the little feline close while Abigail freed the pixie from its aerial entrapment. 

“Poor little thing is so scared it’s shaking,” the elder woman cooed and pet the kitten’s soft fur. “There, there, you’re safe.”

A jangle of angry bells sounded from Abigail’s cupped hands. The fairy, a blur of dust and a fiery red aura, was trapped between the woman’s fingers. 

“Noisy little thing,” Rose commented as she continued to soothe the fluffy bundle in her arms. 

“He’s yelling at us,” her lover said.

“Well that’s fairly obvious.”

“No, I mean,” she seemed to be listening intently as the tiny being went on its verbal rampage. “I mean that he’s actually saying something, and I can understand his words.” Both the doctor and the witch looked at her in confusion. “I don’t know how, but I can,” she paused. “He has quite the imagination for insults.”

“You always had a connection with the Fae but never something like this,” Rose came to stand beside her. “More of Neverland’s magic having an effect on us?”

“Seems the closest explanation,” she nodded. “But we were apparently too close to something. Trespassing, he keeps saying. Are we close to the fairy home?”

“Not really,” Dr. Blake looked at the pixie with a wary eye. “Probably best to let that one go ‘bout his business. We don’t want his brethren falling down on us like a cloud of locusts.” Before Abigail could set the little sprite free however, another bright ball of light came careening into the clearing. “Blast it all.” 

The witch holding the captive fairy was distracted but a moment by the new intruder, her grip loosening just enough for him to wiggle free. They were quick, darting back and forth so fast that only a trail of light and golden dust gave their location away. More jingles were heard, a fierce conversation was going on. 

“What are they saying,” Rose asked her girlfriend. 

“She’s been looking for him all day,” Abigail said, her pale eyes moving back and forth as the fairies flew about their heads. “They’ve been planning something? And he’s gone and ruined it by getting caught.”

“Well we don’t really know what’s happening,” she stroked the kitten’s head.

“Someone was supposed to be here already.”

“Who?”

A loud, piercing crow answered that question for them. 

“Oh no.” 

The surgeon ducked for cover, knowing full well that the presence of the Boy would only bring pain. But the women huddled together, not knowing where the Boy was or what to do. Rose cradled the kitten to her chest and the little ball of fur squirmed. Abigail listened to the tinkling of the pixies as they called out to the Boy. 

Pan tumbled from the leaves with a bubbling laugh, landing on one of the broader branches with all the grace of the young boy that he was, and peered down at the clearing. 

“Hullo, Tink,” he grinned. The female pixie jangled something rude at the male pixie and sped off to light upon Pan’s shoulder, her usual throne. Pan’s eyes squinted down at the women standing at the clearing and frowned, “Say, aren’t those the two ladies we saw on the Codfish’s ship?”

Tink tinkled a response and Rose looked quickly to Abigail who gave a tiny nod. 

“What do you think they’re doing way out here?” He asked his fairy as though the women couldn’t hear him, “D’you suppose they’re running away from the old man? They must not like having dirty, stinky, smelly pirates for children. Maybe they could be our mothers, what do you think, Tink?”

Tinker Bell, still sore over the last lady who had come to the Island to be their mother, was not overly fond of this idea and said so with much vulgarity. 

“Aw, Tink,” Pan said playfully, “Someone has to fix our broken pockets! And they probably know such stories, too.” 

Tink scowled. 

The cat meowed loudly. Rose shushed him at once, but the sound caught Pan’s attention and he floated down slowly to hover before the women, his hands on his hips. 

“What’cha got there, lady?” The Boy asked with all his boyish charm. 

“Nothing,” Rose answered, curling protectively around the kitten. 

“How’d you get to Neverland?” He asked, brow furrowing, “I didn’t bring you here. And you can’t fly without my fairy dust.”

Tink had several things to say about that. 

“We...um,” Abigail struggled to find the words. 

Just at that moment, a gaggle of pirates burst into the clearing, led by the man in scarlet who charged the Boy with a strangled roar, “PAN!”

“Oh _no_.”

The women were forgotten immediately as the Man and the Boy fell to their customary battle with vigorous enthusiasm. While Hook had yet to notice them, the crew spotted them almost at once. Several were confused by the sight of them, others looked upon them with suspicion. Dr. Blake crossed himself. Steel sang as swords clashed. All eyes were on the duel taking place over the glen. 

“Too slow, old man!” Pan laughed as he flipped into the air, kicking off Hook’s feathered hat as he went. 

“Petulant youth, I will rip out your tongue and nail it to my wall!” The captain spun, a cyclone of blades that ripped the leaves from the boy’s earthy tunic. 

“I can see why the ladies ran away! You’re ugly and foul mouthed!” Tinker Bell tittered, the crew made noises of shock and the witches groaned. Back and forth they fought, Hook furiously so as he tried to push his opponent back. He was caught of guard as the elfin boy waved excitedly to someone behind him. The fight changed direction as Peter flew under Hook’s legs to a high branch of a sturdy oak, hands on his hips and an insufferable look of cocky pride on his face. Nearly spinning off balance, the captain finally saw the women. He gaped for a moment and then was pulled away by the mocking laugh high above them. 

“Don’t worry, pretty ladies, I’ll be back to rescue you! Come on, Tink!” Pan and his fairy companions flew off into the distance, calling names and giggling the whole way. 

“Coward! Come back here and fight me, boy!” But he was already far off, a dot on the horizon. “Damnation!” He took his aggravation out on a nearby shrub, hacking it to a miserable stumb of broken sticks and scattered leaves. Rose and Abigail watched from a safe distance, unsure of what to do or say. As it happened, they needn’t do anything. 

“You two!” The Hook was pointed to them. “What in Lucifer’s name are you doing here?” 

“Taking a walk?” Abigail suggested. 

“And who brought you to shore?” He was stalking towards them now, barely pausing to retrieve his fallen hat. 

“We came on our own,” Rose said. She could hear Dr. Blake gasp but ignored him. “There was a map on your desk, we looked it over and took the longboat. We had to get out for a bit.”

“So you set out alone, to an island you had never seen in your lives, one rife with dangers I had already warned you about?” He stood just before then now, breathing heavily, fist clenching and unclenching in his fury. 

“Nothing happened,” the younger witch tried to placate him. “And we are very capable of defending ourselves if something had.” 

“That isn’t the point when-” he suddenly stopped. They followed his gaze, which lead the the fluffy bundle clutched close to Rose’s breast. “What is that?”

“A...kitten,” the elder witch answered slowly. “We saved him.” Little green eyes turned to the pirate, wide and curious. A little rumbling noise was coming from the small cat, he was purring quite happily. “And I’m going to keep him.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m taking the kitten back with me,” Rose him square in the eye, as if daring him to take the feline from her protective hold. 

“You can’t argue this with her,” Abigail folded her arms across her chest. James breathed deeply, looked to the sky, closed his eyes and regained some semblance of composure. 

“Back to the ship.” The men rushed to fulfill his order. “You two, walk with me. Since you were so adamant to stretch your legs, that should be to your liking.” He did not bother waiting for a confirmation, but simply began walking back along the trail. Behind him the witches shared a curious look and a shrug. Together they walked in silence, the song of birds and the murmur of the men ahead were the only noises for some time. It was not until the crash of waves in the distance reached their ears that Hook spoke again. “You were lucky today.”

“How so?” Abigail asked. 

“That Pan was in a more frivolous mood and that I appeared when I did,” he turned around, blocking the path. “Did he say anything before I arrived?” 

“Several things really,” Rose said. 

“Explain.”

“He wanted to know how we got here, not that we told him,” she added the end quickly. 

“And he wanted us to be mothers to him and his Lost Boys,” Abigail said nonchalantly. “He always wants that.” 

“And now he has it in his infantile head that you’ve gone and left me. It won’t be long until he comes crowing around my ship looking for you.” 

“And he will be sent back to his hideout by the fearsome Captain Hook,” Rose said with a smile, her hand smoothing down his arm. 

“And the Hook’s sorceresses?” James pressed pointedly. 

“And the wicked witches,” Abigail grinned, a cruel glint to her blue eyes. 

He matched her smile, trailing his fingertip down the curve of his claw. “Excellent.”


	8. A Reminder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a very rough sex scene of a BDSM nature. There will be notations when the scene begins and ends.

“Rose, I know as little as you about this,” Abigail insisted, stirring two lumps of sugar into her tea with a careless flick of her magical fingers. “You heard bells tinkling, I heard voices. How can I understand them? How am I to know? But I do.”

“But there has to be a reason,” Rose insisted, her teacup forgotten in her hand halfway to her lips, “Abigail, aren’t you curious?”

“Of course I am,” her lover replied, flipping her curls over her shoulder, “But I can’t say I’m shocked speechless by it. Think about it. You know as well as I that the forest where I grew up was filled with faeries. Your mother saw a faerie in your flower pots that one time she came to lunch at our house. I’ve always been of interest to them as they have been to me. Things are different on Neverland than at home, why should this be such a big deal?”

“You said it yourself,” Rose replied, “My mother saw the faerie in _my_ flower pots but I wasn’t the one who could hear them talk or understand them. No, there’s something about you that’s more kin to them than anything.”

“Rose, that’s absurd,” Abigail said, sipping her tea. 

“No, it isn’t,” the auburn-haired witch insisted, “You’ve always been capricious and mischievous and even cruel.” That last word earned her a sugar-lump to the face and, when it fell to the floor, the kitten, newly dubbed King James II, pounced upon it. Rose set her teacup down and leaned forward, “Abigail, I think growing up around the fae changed something within you. You said they were Unseelie aligned, yes?”

“Yes,” Abigail said hesitantly. 

“Think about how your powers manifest!” Rose had that look in her eye that usually meant she had found a new subject to study, “Think about the magic you’ve always been good at! Weather like storms and snow, dark magics like shadow-work and necromancy, blood magic and curses? There’s always this _aura_ about you when you cast, powerful and old and inhuman. I’ve felt it! And the cold. You never noticed, but doing magic with you meant being chilled for the rest of the day. You have to see the parallels to the Unseelie, don’t you?”

“When you say it like that, I suppose,” Abigail conceded, refilling her cup, “But you can’t think I’m….what? Part fae? Rose, you’re the scholar, not the artsy dreamer. That’s my character archetype.”

“I have a fair amount of flare for the dramatic,” Rose grinned. “My published romances are a testament to that.”

“Fair.” They sipped their tea in a comfortable silence, both reviewing the events of earlier that day in their heads. At their feet, King James was playing with his own tail, rolling around like a little cyclone of fluff. 

“Do you think we’re being missed back home?” Abigail looked up from her teacup, a little stunned by her girlfriend’s question. “We’ve been gone over a week, surely someone must have noticed.”

“I...hadn’t thought of it to be honest.” The tea lay forgotten on the table, cups pushed away as both women leaned forward with sullen expressions. 

“In the play, it was never said how long the Darling children were gone. Their parents wondered when they would come home. Do you think that was true to reality?”

“Who can say? Do you want to go home?” Such a thought had not occurred her, she worried at what her beloved’s answer might be. 

“I...don’t know.” Rose ran her hand over her face, adjusted her glasses and sighed. “Being here is every day dream and fantastic wish I ever had come true.” She held out both her hands, palms up as little sparks of scarlet burst from her fingertips. “I can feel my magic flowing through me like rivers of electricity. Winds are only the beginning, I know it. What would happen if I tried to conduct a ritual, what might answer me? I have to know….” she trailed off and curled her hands back into her lap. “And yet I miss my family, our friends, our house. The longer we stay the more I learn, more that I could have use for in my book. All my work will have been for nothing if it’s never published. I feel so lost…”

Abigail stood, picked up her chair, walked around the table and sat down next to her. She clasped her hands in her own, bringing them to her lips and kissed each finger then her palms. They leaned towards each other until their lips met, sweet and tenderly. 

“You’re never lost,” she said softly. “So long as we’re together neither of us will ever be lost.”

“I don’t what I would do without you to keep me in line,” Rose chuckled a little. 

“I could say the same for you,” Abigail squeezed her hands. “So, you are concerned about those we unknowingly left behind.”

“Yes, I at least want to know they are alright. Don’t you have any fears about home?” Abigail seemed to think for a moment before nodding.

“If time flows the same then I know I missed the audition for The Scottish Play,” she grimaced a little. “I had such a great monologue planned too.”

“You would have made a devilishly lovely Lady Macbeth.” Abigail’s dark lashes fluttered coquettishly. “Any other regrets?”

“I miss our little library,” she conceded. “And the smell of pancakes in the morning, our old radio playing above the shelf of cookbooks. Even the odd noises that my station wagon made seem nostalgic to me now. And yet....,” she paused and breathed deeply. “This place has given us a gift. You’re right, calling storms and talking to faeries is only the tip of the iceberg. If we left now, we would never know the full extent of what we could do. But to do so is to sacrifice all the hard work I’ve put into my acting career…”

“If time does flow the same and we continue to remain here.”

“We have to know that, at the very least.”

A tiny growl interrupted their talk. Both witches turned around, searching for the noise. It was a rather surprising sight that met them. Their kitten was puffed up to twice his size, all his fur standing on end. He hissed a gilded silver plate, pawing at it with his tiny claws. His enemy? His own reflection. 

“Ohhh,” Rose cooed. “He’s a protective little guy.”

“And a genius,” Abigail stood and scooped up the kitten. “Yes you are,” she nuzzled him as he squirmed in her arms. “Mirrors!”

“Mirrors?” 

“We can try checking in back home with a mirror. With the control we now posses, it should be easy to turn a mirror into a window rather than a portal.” A look of realization lit up Rose’s face. 

“That’s brilliant!” She too stood, lavished the white belly of the cat with affection and hurried to find the objection in question. “There has to be one around here somewhere.” As Abigail entertained their new pet, Rose searched through the many chests brimming with treasure scattered about the cabin. “Ah ha!”

“Find one?”

“I have. And it’s gorgeous to boot.” Teal enamel was laid in the facing and handle. Polished gold filigree, winding vines with stylized blossoms, shone brightly like the sun. “That is baroque if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Very pretty,” Abigail set King James down where he scampered off to play by the window seat. “We’ll have to see if there is another when we’re done.”

“Where do you want to do this?”

“The chaise, it’s close and comfortable.” They hurried to sit down, the mirror held between them. “Do you think we’ll need the candles lit, like we had before when we fell through our scrying stone?”

“I have the feeling that we won’t,” Rose said slowly. “If anything, something like this should be easy. But I do want to try a full ritual at some point.”

“Agreed.”

The witches looked down upon the the glass. Streams of magic, crackling red and glittering blue, wove into a shining ribbon around the antique hand mirror. The air in the cabin grew still. Sounds that were a moment ago clearly heard became muffled. Their eyes grew glazed over as their reflections grew misty. In their hands the glass turned dark. Flashes of half developed images were projected to them. Morning light through the kitchen window. Piles of books right where they left them. Candles long since extinguished. 

And then the ship lurched. Their concentration was broken and the glass returned to normal. 

“What was that?” Rose lost her balance was nearly flung off the chaise. Abigail caught her, the mirror dropped on the cushion.

“I have no idea.” But the ship did not rock back into place, instead the room remained at the odd angle. “This is odd.”

“So was that vision, it was home but I couldn’t tell anything about how much time has passed.” Rose shook her head, trying to calm her excited powers. 

“Me neither. One weird thing after another today,” the younger witch was also trying to shake off the residue of their spell. It was not a comfortable feeling, being thrown out a magical state of mind so suddenly. Both women noticed how the room, once bright with the light of day, was quickly growing dark. “Did night come while we were looking in the glass?”

“I don’t think so,” the elder carefully stood and made her way to the window. Just as she was looking outside the cabin door burst open. 

Hook stormed in, accompanied by a flurry of freezing wind and a cloud of flurries. 

At once, Rose huddled against the thick velvet of the chaise, seeking the warmth in the sudden burst of chilled air. At once, Abigail rose to her feet, embracing the cold wind, the flurries swirling around her, kissing her lashes as she smiled at the cold she adored. 

“Welcome home, dear,” she said to the captain. Hook brushed the flurries from the shoulder of his black coat and glowered. 

Rose spoke from where she was burrowing under the tapestry trim of a burgundy velvet throw, “What brought on this sudden weather change?”

“The Boy.”

“Pardon?”

“The Boy has left the Island,” he said crisply. 

“And...that brings on a change in the entire season?” Rose said dubiously. Abigail was already out of the door to dance among the snowflakes. The closing of the cabin door brought a spike to James’ headache and he groaned, pressing a hand to his brow. Rose slowly emerged from the blanket, wrapping it like a cape around her shoulders as she approached the captain. 

“James?” she said hesitantly. He glared at her.

“Why did you leave the ship?” he snarled, “What madness persuaded you to go to the Island of all places? You know the danger.”

“Abigail wanted to explore,” Rose said with a tiny shrug, “And I also wanted to see the beauty of the Island. You only told us the dangers, we wanted to see the beauty as well.”

“There is no beauty in the Boy’s realm,” he growled, reaching for a bottle of muscat. Rose pressed her lips together in disapproval but did not say a word as he took a healthy swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fixed her with a sharp glare, “You left the ship without my permission. This disobedience will not stand.”

“Disobedience?” Rose argued, “We do not belong to you, you cannot command us.”

“I am captain of this ship,” he fired back, “I _do command_ you. You will not leave this ship without my permission again. Do you understand?”

Her pride wounded, Rose swelled with anger, “Will you chain me to this cabin to keep me your prisoner?”

“If I must.”

She shrunk before the ferocity in his eyes and he took another long draught of muscat. Blue eyes flicked to the mirror propped against the chaise and his dark brows contracted. He did not bother asking, just lifted an eyebrow expectantly. 

“We, uh,” she started, “We were trying to scry back home to figure out how long we’d been gone and how things were back home but we weren’t very successful. All we saw were some images but nothing conclusive…”

“Why were you looking back to your world?” his voice turned brittle, eyes hard, “Is this world not good enough for you? Are you _unhappy_ here?”

“I...no,” Rose stammered, “No, that’s not it at all! No, we just wanted to look at our house and see if everything was okay….no, we’re very happy here. It’s just...we have lives that we left behind. I was studying, writing books, living in a house with my girlfriend. Abigail was working on her acting career, performing with regional theatres, earning awards for her work. We had lives before you, James, we just wanted to check in on it.”

“You’re here now,” he said, the bottle quickly draining into his stomach, “Be here. Does anything else matter?”

“It’s not that easy.” Rose fidgeted. “We put down roots there, it’s not so easy to just rip them up.”

His eyes narrowed, “You’re here now. That is what matters. This is the last I will hear of this.”

Rose bit her tongue, dissatisfied with this ending to the conversation. 

“Where is the other one?” He said at last, drinking deeply before setting the bottle down and glancing around. 

“She loves the cold and the snow,” Rose said, “She’s out on the deck frolicking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go look for yourself.”

He crossed to the door and wrenched it open, peering out. There on the main-deck was the other witch, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stood in the snow. She wore little more than his shirt and breeches, her feet bare, the shirt gaping open and sleeves rolled up to bare her arms. The snow whirled around her and she twirled, the wind caressing her body as she danced with the snowflakes. Her lips looked as though they were blue with cold, her skin paler than usual. The crew watched, giving the witch plenty of space as they looked on in apprehension. 

He closed the cabin door against the cold. “She’ll freeze.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Some element of your magic protects her then?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“That is no answer.”

“I don’t think I want to give you a straight answer right now,” Rose shrugged and went back to her seat on the chaise. 

“Do not give me lip, woman. I am in no mood for it,” he began to pace across the cabin like a tiger in a cage. 

“When are you ever in the mood for being debated? You’re scared.” He stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning to face her, his hand clenched into a tight fist. 

“What did you say?”

“You’re missing a hand, not your hearing.” He breathed heavily through his nose, his knuckles turned pale. “We took the initiative to explore the island, you felt powerless because we were not safely within your sight. Peter Pan has left suddenly and you have no idea why, you hate being trapped in the unknown of any kind. And now you discover that Abigail and I still harbor sentimental feelings for our home back on the Mainland.” Rose watched as he continued to seethe and did not feel one ounce of regret. She was infuriated at him. They were grown women, they had no master to tell them what they could or could not do. And his continued habit of releasing his fury at a child upon them had to stop, right now.

“You know naught of what you speak,” he hissed. 

“Oh I think I do,” she looked at herself in the hand mirror, acting as if he were a nuisance to her. “I literally wrote the book on you, remember?”

“That is ancient history.”

“But it sure as hell gives me something to work with!” Her shout seemed to make his headache even worse, she actually relished that. “This taking out your aggression for Pan on everything around you needs to end. You want us to love it here? Stop treating us as property and using us as emotional punching bags.” She didn’t care that he had no comprehension of what she spoke of but did not rightly care. “And you’re afraid. Admitting this might be a good place to start.”

“I am not afraid!”

“Old, alone, done for! Ring a bell?”

Hook froze. Red slowly flamed into his eye. 

“You are not to leave this ship,” he snarled, “You are not to leave this cabin.” 

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Rose sank onto the chaise and wrapped her arms around herself. 

***  
 **(Rough scene begins here)**

He stayed away from them. He did not speak to them, he slept in the Mate’s cabin that he had given to them. He curled in upon himself during the cold nights instead of returning to his own bed where he could share the warmth of the women. His mood grew fouler with each day, the bags beneath his eyes darkening, his mouth twisted into a constant frown as he passed the door to his cabin every day, listening to the music that seeped from beneath the door and the voices of the women. But they obeyed him and did not leave the cabin. They stayed away from him as much as he did them. 

But it seemed one of them was not content to stay away from the crew for very long. 

He awoke one morning after a particularly foul night of sleep in the cramped bed of the mate cabin and emerged out onto the main deck to see Abigail, pale in the snow, waylaying Cecco. The Italian was only too happy to be caught in the pretty witch’s arms. He had heard the sounds from his captain’s cabin, he knew what this witch could do with her body and how she sounded in her pleasure. When her arms wound around his neck and her breasts pressed against his chest, it took little convincing for him to find himself leaning back against the railing of the ship, hands grasping hungrily at her while she sucked at his earlobe. 

James’ claw twitched and his teeth ground together.

His hand fisted in her thick hair and he wrenched her away from the Italian. She managed to flash a wicked smile at the bemused Mister Cecco before Hook dragged her away. Cecco was left feeling used for some nefarious purpose that he could not see. 

The door to the cabin was thrown open, startling Rose who was sitting at the harpsichord and sending King James scurrying into his little den in fright. The captain stomped in, wrenching the dark-haired witch after him by her hair. Rose, having obeyed Hook’s command of remaining in the cabin, was certainly confused at the scarlet gleam in the Captain’s eye and the wicked smile mingled with pain on Abigail’s face. 

“James, what-?”

James growled, hurling the dark-haired woman to the floor. Rose gasped, taking half a step toward her lover but froze at the snarl of “Whore!” that left the captain’s mouth. 

“James!” Rose was horrified at how he was treating the other woman. James ignored her. 

“Have I been remiss in my duties in bed?” His look was positively thunderous as he stood above the smaller woman sprawled on the thick carpet in front of the stairs to his bed. “Have I been neglecting your needs? Have I left you so wanting you turn to whoring yourself out to the crew? Opening your legs for the first man who comes crawling by?”

“Hard to maintain your duties in bed if you aren’t in bed,” Abigail hissed up at him with a bare of her teeth. He lifted his hand to strike her but was interrupted. 

“James, what is going on?” Rose still stood by the harpsichord, frozen in confusion and disbelief at the scene playing out before her eyes. 

“I went above deck to supervise the crew and found this _tart_ with Mister Cecco by the bowsprit. His hands on her and her legs spread. Does her harlotry know no bounds?”

“James, I’m sure this isn’t what this seems…”

“It’s exactly what it seems!” the scarlet in his eyes was growing brighter. “The slut needs to be reminded who _owns_ her.”

Rose cast a glance at Abigail on the floor just in time to see the darkening of her pupils and the hidden smirk that crossed her lips. 

“James, take a moment to think about this,” Rose said, trying to move between the pirate and the witch. “You’re only doing what she wants. She _likes_ this!”

“She won’t like it when I’m through with her,” Hook snarled, brushing Rose to the side with a swipe of his arm. His hand closed on Abigail’s wrist, hauling her to her feet. “And, Rose, do not think I have forgotten our own quarrel. This punishment will be for you as much as for her.”

“Wh-?” Rose hardly got the first syllable out before the iron claw slashed at the shirt Abigail wore, tearing it easily. The tip of the hook also left a thin trail of red in it’s wake against Abigail’s pale skin and Rose gasped, moving towards her beloved. 

“No!” James growled. “You will not heal her or help her. You will not touch her. You will sit and watch what I do to her and you will be unable to comfort her. That is your punishment.”

Rose gaped at him but Hook turned away from her to tear the rest of the shirt from the dark-haired witch’s shoulders. Her breasts were bared and he noticed how peaked her nipples were but disregarded it. His fingers twisted into her thick curls, gripping brutally tight and bringing a pained gasp to her lips before she submitted to his grasp. He shoved her up the stairs to his bed, snarling in her ear, “Fucking you on the bed is more than you deserve, slut, but it provides me a place to tie you down and take you how I please. So I will permit you this small shred of comfort before I punish you.”

She barely bit back a moan. He flung her onto the mattress and she tossed her hair out of her face, looking up at him with equal parts arousal and apprehension on her face. His hook tore the buttons from the front of her breeches and she heard them scatter across the floor. 

“You’ll find those and mend them yourself,” he growled as he pulled the breeches from her hips, “Since you profess to be so good with your _hands_.” The buttons around the calves of the trousers strained at the buttonholes before popping off under his fingers and claw. He threw the breeches to the floor. She was naked, bared before him, and he was fully clothed. He was in complete control over her, and judging by the blush staining her cheeks, she knew it. 

“Turn her over so I don’t have to look at her face.”

It took a moment for Rose to stumble into motion but she slowly climbed the steps to the bed platform. Her hands were soft and gentle, an unspoken worry and apology in her touch as she coaxed Abigail onto her stomach. 

“What have you done?” she whispered into dark curls and was answered with a chuckle.

“Spiced things up a bit.” Rose could have sworn she saw Abigail wink. 

“You’re insane.”

“Just a bit.”

James held a skein of rope in his hand, “That’s enough. Hold her down.”

Rose obeyed and Hook lashed her wrists together, binding them tightly to the headboard in front of her. Her ankles were bound to the bedposts, leaving her legs spread and her intimate places exposed. 

“Sit,” James commanded, pointing to the wing-backed chair set against the wall of the cabin. “Sit and stay. You will watch, nothing more.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered him in a small voice. She settled into the chair and bit her lip. 

Hook turned to the woman bound and spread before him. His hand reached for a flogger and Rose inhaled sharply. Abigail heard her and tensed, waiting. The flogger swished through the air and Abigail whimpered at the strike of the leather against her tender skin. He struck again, harder. Abigail gasped, Rose caught the delighted smile that flashed across her face and a jolt of hot arousal shot between her own legs. Abigail squirmed slightly against the rope, her pale skin reddening with the strikes of the leather. Impatiently, Hook threw the flogger aside and reached for a cat o’ nine that sat atop the trunk. Modified for pleasurable pain, it would still serve as suitable punishment. 

The knots in the leather bit into the flesh of Abigail’s back and she cried out at the sharp pain. He struck again, harder, and blood welled from the breaks in her skin. With the next strike of the cat, the blood was smeared across pale skin. Crimson blood matched the colour of the bedspread and the gleam of scarlet in his eyes. Abigail’s toes curled. Rose’s fingers itched to touch her, to soothe the pain or add to it, she did not know. But it was torture to just sit and watch. 

“James,” she whimpered.

“Silence,” he ordered, turning his burning scarlet eyes to hers. “You know your place.”

She subsided into silence and his arm raised again to bring the whip down against tender skin. Abigail cried out, her body tensing with the strike, angry welts standing out against her skin. 

“You’ve earned this, harlot,” Hook snarled, “Remember this.”

“Yes, sir,” Abigail gasped, amusement tingeing her voice. He struck her harder. She screamed. 

“Tie me to the chair,” Rose pleaded. “Tie me down so I cannot join you.”

“I expect you to have better control over yourself, Rose,” James growled. “Do not disappoint me.”

Rose whimpered. Abigail laughed. James struck her with his hand. 

“Do not enjoy this, whore. If you want to be enjoyed, then I shall turn you over to the crew.”

“And have them share in your toy?”

The whip thudded to the floor, the hook traced down her back. “Perhaps I ought to mark you as mine so ensure the lesson _lasts_.”

Abigail barely bit back a moan, squirming against the wetness pooling between her legs. The blade scratched a line against her flesh and she gasped, feeling the sting of the cut. The hook pressing against the back of her neck to keep her pliant, James reached between her legs, fingers jammed against her soaked cunt and she squealed. 

“You whore,” he snarled against her ear, bending over her to press his mouth against her curls, “You love this, don’t you? You _like_ being reminded to whom you belong. You like being treated like a slut. How could you like this? Disgusting.”

She moaned against the cushion and he scoffed. He pulled away, discarding his shirt and boots. Abigail squirmed as she heard the rustling of his clothes. His hand struck her ass, against one of the wounds breaking her skin and she jerked against the ropes, crying out. He laughed cruelly, disposing of his breeches. He was hard, Rose saw at once. He could talk about how sickened he was that Abigail relished this treatment of her body, but this behaviour also inflamed him. 

His hand gripped her hip, pulling her ass upward. His finger shoved inside her and she stifled her moan into the cushion. The ropes chafed against her wrists as he pulled her against him. 

“You want to be used like a whore?” he hissed, his voice sickeningly sweet, “I’ll be happy to oblige, slut.”

He thrust himself into her, sheathing himself fully, ignoring the way she yelped and tried to arch away from him. His knots held, however, and she remained trapped and spread open for him. His eyes were red as the blood weeping from the gashes in her back and he reached down with his hook to claw into her shoulder a jagged J followed by an angular H. 

“Mine,” he growled. Abigail whimpered in delighted pain, the blood trailing down to stain the scarlet spread beneath her. He plunged deep inside her and she squealed. Rose sat obediently in the chair, transfixed. He was fucking their lover as though he hated her, as though she was nothing more than a hole for his pleasure. Blood was staining her skin and the bedclothes, and Rose wanted to heal her, to soothe her pain. But the moans of pleasure and the smile on her face as their captain pounded into her spoke to her ecstasy and Rose squirmed against her own arousal at the sight. She was wet and she clung to the arms of the chair, fairly trembling with the war between concern and excitement. 

He was gripping her hip hard enough to bruise and Abigail whimpered. His teeth sank into her shoulder as his hips sped up. He shoved himself inside her, hips ramming against her with a brutal speed that sent her blue eyes rolling back into her head. Rose whimpered in need, Abigail moaned throatily, and Hook grunted out a curse. Moans and curses filled the cabin along with the sound of flesh on flesh. He pulled her hair, arching her neck back, and his teeth closed on her neck. She shuddered and the next thrust of his hips brought a scream to her lips, her limbs trembling as her orgasm ripped through her. He shoved her head away from him, bouncing against the cushions, and his hand fell with a smack upon her already red and bruised arse. 

“Do you remember my philosophy, Rose?” His voice was rough and Rose shuddered. 

“Y-yes, sir,” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the smile on her beloved’s face as Hook continued fucking her into the mattress. 

“One,” he prompted with a sharp thrust of his hips that brought a whimper to Abigail’s lips. 

“You want it,” Rose breathed, her pupils large. 

“Two,” he snarled, taking a handful of Abigail’s hair to pull her farther onto his cock. She was limp and pliant under him, letting him use her as he wished. 

“You take it,” Rose groaned, shifting her thighs to try to alleviate the ache between her legs. 

“Three,” he commanded, dragging his fingers down her back against the gashes left by the whip, bringing a cry to Abigail’s lips. 

“You’ve got it,” Rose whimpered. 

With a dark growl, he rammed into Abigail and spilled himself deep within her, filling her with his seed. He pulled himself away from her, not permitting her to enjoy the feeling of him inside her after he finished. With slashes of his hook, the ropes no longer bound her limbs and she curled against herself, trembling as the remnants of her pleasure coursed through her, his seed leaking from inside her. He reached down to a small sack of coins tossed haphazardly on top of a window shelf. Fishing out a coin, he flipped it onto the bed beside her. 

“Payment for your services, whore.”

Rose opened her mouth to reproach him, but Abigail’s laughter cut her off. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a wicked grin and a wink. She uncurled herself slowly and leaned against the cushions, rubbing at the rope-burns on her wrists. She smiled happily up at him and he scowled. 

“You wanted me to take you like that, didn’t you?” he said sourly. 

“I told you this,” Rose spoke up, “She likes that.”

Abigail’s smile fairly sparkled with innocence. 

“You incurred my wrath on purpose,” he said with a wry smile. “Did Mister Cecco know what you were doing?”

“Oh no,” she said with a grin, “I used him for my own ends. And you played your part beautifully. Played it beautifully right into my hands.”

His scowl deepened. “And you could not simply bring your desire to me and just _tell_ me, why?”

She crawled across the bed toward him with a smile and reached up to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. 

“It’s more fun this way.”

He accepted the kiss but his frown did not go away, even as she took his hand and tugged him down onto the bed with her. 

“I hope you at least learned your lesson,” he growled. 

“Of course not,” she grinned, wiggling against him. She reached another hand out for Rose who, not waiting for the Captain’s permission, snuggled in behind her. She brushed against the wounds on Abigail’s back and Abigail bit back a hiss of pain, her face screwing up at the sting.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my darling!” Rose exclaimed instantly pulling away. James craned his head to look down at his handiwork. Her back and arse were crisscrossed with red welts. Scabs were beginning to form where the blood had congealed in the broken gashes. His initials, clawed into the flesh of her shoulder, were still seeping blood. An extra wrinkle of concern furrowed his brow. She must be in terrible pain. 

“No it’s alright,” Abigail said, carefully stretching out on her stomach so that she could be cuddled by both her lovers, “I like the pain. It’ll be a good reminder of the lesson. And when they heal...well, I might have to be reminded.”

His hand gave her ass a gentle slap, “I’ll be sure you don’t forget.”

She laughed. 

“Well,” Rose said, looking down at the initials that were sure to leave a nasty scar, “You’ve successfully marked one of your women.”

“Oh, I have several ideas for you, my dear, do not fret,” he cooed, his finger trailing across her throat. Rose shuddered at his touch. 

**(Scene Ends)**

***

Beams of pale, silvery moonlight illuminated the cabin in a soft glow that left deep shadows in the corners and upon the heavy furniture. It was warm again, the Boy returning after only four days, a blessing really. His eyes had always been sharp, even in the darkest of night, so the faint gleam of the moon did nothing to hide the sight before him. To the far right wall stood his four poster bed. At least two centuries old, the ancient mahogany was carved with scenes of sensuous nymphs and amorous mortals caught in their watery embraces. Heavy crimson curtains embossed with intricate embroidery were pulled back against the tall headboard in lieu of the balmy summer night. A relieving breeze pulled at his long curls, the subtle ebb and flow of the waves were a calming song to the hectic voices in his mind. All the confusion, self incrimination, angst and passion were centered on the forms lying upon the feather mattress covered with but a thin silk sheet. He blew circles of smoke from his dual-cigar device, the sweet smelling cloud floating slowly through the air with a small degree of distraction.

Even from his place, seated across the cabin on the plush chaise, he could see the contrast of their long hair spread across the white pillows. Umber curls fell in perfect, tight spirals, so very different from the pin-straight fall of auburn. Both were impossibly soft to the touch, he knew well how the tresses could glide through his fingers. In the silver light their pale arms almost glowed. Under the fine sheets each and every curve was on display, from shapely leg to rounded hip. They lay partially entwined, their limbs meeting in the center of the large bed where he usually took his rest. Tonight though, sleep stubbornly evaded him and so he found himself in his current placement. The reason? It was quite obvious: the two females somewhere in dreamland in his bed.

What should have been every red-blooded man's dream had become nothing but a never ending quandary for James Hook.

Somehow, in the course of his acquaintance with the sorceresses, what should have been a simply physical accordance, he found that his black heart had begun to beat again.

And to confound his usually logical mental processes, it was not just for one of the beguiling women that instilled such loathsome thoughts in him.

He dare not use the word for the emotion which had begun to haunt his unconscious mind. More than once it had nearly fallen from his lips in the heat of their passion and more than once he had painfully bit down on his tongue to prevent it, sometimes drawing blood. His women were a pair of conundrums. Beauty, grace and intelligence with a flair for the dramatic, all traits he valued in the fairer sex. But they could also be vicious to those who offended them, turning their dark arts on the fool before the victim could blink. And then they could reverse their thoughts and be the most kind and caring creatures who ever walked this world when one they were fond of was injured or sorrowful. What was he to make of that? In his dreams he could hear lovely singing, laughing and pleasurable sighs. He could see hazel and blue eyes that could be as cold as ice or warm as the summer sun. They were more haunting than sirens, surely Odysseus had an easier time in resisting their call.

His treacherous, baser instincts longed to return to bed, aching for the feel of supple, nude bodies pressed against him. A man could easily become addicted to such a feeling, it was a burr in side that he fell so swiftly into the habit. And yet, he would not give them up for all the treasure in this world or the other. James was a possessive man, and he did not share what belonged to him. Though the sea would always be first in his affections, his mistresses, his muses, were forever burned into his heart.

He took another long drag, closing his eyes as he exhaled smoke.

Where did one proceed from here? Was there even a need to change course in how they now lived their lives?

Such a question he did not often ask of himself, ever being sure in his direction of thought and action. How peculiar this situation was, he pondered. Clearly there was still light left in his dark soul, if he was still capable of such warm feelings. But he knew that should someone attempt to steal them away, or Lucifer forbid that they aim to leave on their own, his retribution would be the stuff of nightmares. Luckily, his women had made it undeniably apparent that they were quite happy aboard his ship, when the subject of returning to their world came up in conversation they visibly balked. Though the fact remained that no one beyond his crew and the inhabitants of the cursed island they were doomed to ever return were all that knew of his claim. 

As he turned to snuff out his cigars, his gaze fell upon the colored skin of his upper arm. The coat of arms was known to him from boyhood, a memento of one of the few happy times in his wretched life. A mark of esteem, pride and possession. Lips curled into a knowing smirk, his eye moving from the tattoo over to the slumbering beauties laying unsuspecting on the canopied bed. Oh yes, that would do quite nicely.


	9. Mark of the Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My co-author and I have also started a Tumblr blog for this story! We'll post things there to further develop the world of the story, flesh out our concepts for Neverland and the pirate islands, give you profiles and fun facts about Abigail and Rose, as well as journal entries from the private log of the Captain! Check us out and give it a follow! 
> 
> http://hookenchanted.tumblr.com/

“You are suggesting...what?” Rose asked incredulously over breakfast. She nearly dropped her toast into her teacup when he casually brought up his intent, it was rather amusing.

“At least he is making the effort to suggest in the first place,” the younger quipped as she sipped her tea. They sat next to one another, across the small folding table laden with fruit, breads, sweet porridge and a number of dishes too numerous for just the three of them to finish.

“I do not see why you must act so surprised,” his voice was filled with mock bewilderment. “So many of your compatriots have tattoos.”

“Indeed, but I doubt many of them are property signs.” Her hazel eyes fairly sparkled with her fiery temper. “And beyond that, I know for a fact that the methods used for inking skin around this general area are not exactly the most sanitary.”

“Let it be noted that you have yet to outright object to my proposal.”

“The Captain does have a point.”

“Abigail!” 

The curly haired minx laughed at her lover's cry of betrayal before leaning over to capture any retort with a long kiss. It was a sight he knew he would never tire of, the manner in which they played together, so affectionately.

“That was not fair.” Even as she bemoaned the sweet attack she leaned into the hand stroking her cheek.

“Since when am I fair, dear Rose?”

“Point taken, but that does not factor into the matter at hand.” 

“You don’t get to complain to me,” Abigail scolded her, gesturing to the bandage wrapped around her shoulder. “I have my mark. I gave my blood for it, it’s only fair that you should suffer some pain too.”

“Abigail, you know how scared I am of needles,” Rose hissed. 

Abigail only shrugged and sipped her tea. “Then this is a perfect opportunity to get over that really fast. You’re old enough to face your fears, this will help.” Hook thought idly to himself that he for all he now knew about his sorceresses, he never thought to ask their ages. 

Rose squirmed. 

“Hold my hand through it?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “If that helps you get over your fear.”

“You’ll face down bloodthirsty pirates but a needle frightens you?” Rose glared at him. “That seems rather contradictory.”

“Everyone has their quirks,” the elder witch went back to her breakfast. “Who would be doing the actual inking?” Hook muttered something under his breath and poured a shot of whiskey into his tea. “That bad?”

“If I had the slightest grain of trust in anyone else to do the job I wouldn’t look twice at the man.” Oh, this was hitting a nerve. Both witches leaned forward, expectation plain on their faces. “The only crewman aboard that has the skill,” he nearly choked out every word, “is Mr. Cecco.” He drained his teacup. 

For a moment they only stared, their eyes growing ever larger. 

Then they were laughing uproariously. It really was too good. 

“Am I to assume that my tattoo will be in the same place as Abigail’s?” Rose asked, barely holding back her giggles. 

“On the opposite shoulder,” Abigail patted her hand, “we can be a matched set.”

“A fine idea, love! Goodness, I’ll have to take my shirt off for that. I’ll trust you to protect my maiden modesty.”

“I shall defend you valiantly,” Abigail toasted her and smirked at him. 

“You mentioned being too old to hide from your fear,” he quickly turned the subject. “I never felt pressed to inquire, but pray, what are your ages?” Rose turned a little pink, Abigail chuckled slightly. 

“I see what you did there,” her silvery blue eyes sparkled, “but I’ll humor you. I am all of twenty one.” Rose took another bite rather than answer. “She’s a little touchy about her pushing thirty, when really I couldn’t care less, but she’s six years older than me.” Hazel eyes glared a little but quickly warmed when Abigail lent to press a kiss to her cheek. 

“And you both will remain as such, since no one ages here,” he smirked. “Which plays out rather well for me, all the better to preserve your beauty, dear ones.”

Later that day, for Hook was an impatient man and would prefer to get the matter over with quickly, Rose could be found on the main deck behind a screen preparing for the act. Possessive to the core, the captain would not permit more eyes to see his lady than was necessary. She stripped out of his flowing shirt, her long hair catching in the wind. Abigail gently pulled the auburn mass back with a red ribbon, running her soft hands down Rose’s bare skin. 

“Ready, love?”

Rose did not speak, only nodded.

“Lie down,” they had brought out the chaise and covered it with a soft old sheet. Abigail helped her lover ease onto the cushions, her arms braced on the high edge. “It’s going to be alright. You already made a soothing salve this morning to quicken the healing.”

“Friends would tell me that after a time the pain dulls and they enter a kind of trance,” Rose was trying to calm herself. “I hope that happens in my case.”

“Mr. Cecco is swift at his art,” Hook traced the curve of her spine, smiling at her shiver. “All will be finished quickly and efficiently.”

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” her breath hitched when the man in question appeared with his tools in hand. The Italian was also nervous, avoiding his captain’s eye and most _definitely_ avoiding Abigail who tried her damndest to at least get him to see her wink at him. He looked at nothing but his hands as he warily approached Rose. 

“You are to keep your eyes on her shoulder,” Hook instructed plainly and briskly. “And only her shoulder.”

“Aye, sir,” the man stuttered. 

“Consider this to be your masterpiece, I will settle for nothing less.”

“Certainly, sir.”

A small table was set next to the chaise, Cecco placed his tools there and took a seat on the folding wooden stool that matched it. He mixed the powdered ink, a deep indigo color, with water and set the bottle aside when the consistency pleased him. Her shoulder was cleaned and wiped down with with alcohol, at Abigail’s insistence. The curly haired witch kept her sharp eyes on his hands as he dipped the sharp instrument into the ink.

“You’re not going to draw the design on her first?”

Rose’s hand shot out and Abigail gently took it in her own. 

“Some might need the help of a drawing, _signora_ ” the pirate said as he took up the little mallet in his free hand. “But I need no such crutch.”

“Is that so,” she kneeled down and kissed Rose’s cheek. “It’ll be over quicker this way.”

“If you say so,” hazel eyes looked back at her with equal parts bravery and apprehension. The first bite of ivory teeth into her flesh was accompanied by a hiss through clenched teeth. Several more times this happened, the rhythmic tapping of brass on ivory matched beat for beat with a small whimper. But she held back any cry which might have escaped her lips, determined to put on a brave face. A soft rag mopped up the droplets of blood and excess ink every so many minutes, a short respite before the process began anew. Despite her hope that a numbness would overtake her quickly, this was not the case. It hurt, a lot. The artist explained that he was starting with outlining what would make up the thicker strokes of the letters. Only when that was completed would he fill them in and would finish by adding in the cursive flourishes. 

“How long will this take?” she asked when she could breathe at least a little easier, as Cecco was refilling his ink pot. 

“Hard to say, _signora_ ,” the man answered. “But you’re doing very well, some men have screamed for their Mamas by this point.”

“I’ll take the compliment,” her head fell back on the pillow. “How does it look?” she asked her girlfriend. Abigail leaned forward, looked over to see her back.

“Bloody.”

“Thanks.” 

Abigail giggled and squeezed Rose’s hand. 

“From what I can tell, though I’m no professional, it looks very nice, love.” 

Though there were times when the pain was almost too much, especially when already inked flesh needed to be gone over a second or even third time, she did eventually find that blessed numbness. And when Cecco declared his work complete Rose might have sang in happiness. The remaining blood was cleaned up, excess ink carefully removed so it did not stain her skin where it wasn’t wanted and the salve prepared earlier was liberally applied. Through it all, the captain said nothing, acting more akin to a bodyguard. When it was done, he cooly thanked the sailor and relieved him of his duties, Cecco seemed more than happy to get out from under the Hook’s watchful eye. Abigail helped bandage Rose’s shoulder, exactly as her own was dressed and slipped her loose shirt back on. 

“I need chamomile,” Rose mumbled, “lots of it.”

“Of course, darling,” Abigail threaded her arm about her waist as they walked back to the cabin. “It’ll probably be worse come tomorrow.”

“Oh don’t I know it,” hazel eyes glared back at the captain strutting behind them. He looked quite smug. “Happy?”

“Immensely.” 

***

He could hear humming from behind the folding screen. The gentle splashing of water accompanied the tune, no matter how hard he searched his memory he found that he could not recognize the melody. A large Moroccan lantern hanging above the large copper bathing tub, casting a shadow through the thin paper screen. And then there were words.

“ _Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in awhile, please promise me you'll try. When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment spare a thought for me._ ”

James sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and simply listened. His Rose had a high, clear voice. She did not know he was in the cabin, perhaps that was why she allowed herself to release her siren’s gift. 

“ _We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea. But if you can still remember stop and think of me. Think of all the things we've shared and seen, don't think about the way things might have been._ ”

It was a lovely song, clearly she had sung it many times before, there was such care placed into every word. He wondered if she would ever sing for him of her own accord with their lover. Perhaps he might entice her by accompanying her on the harpsichord they all loved so much. Her voice grew towards the end, reaching for a crescendo that sent goosebumps rising on his flesh.

“ _Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you!_ ”

Muses they truly were, his women. Creatures of impossible beauty and gifted in the arts both deadly and refined. He could not have designed them better had he the chance. Behind the painted screen the music died down to merely humming. Through the back-lit paper he watched the shadow of the nymph as she washed herself, the scent of flowers filling the room as she added oils of her own make. Should he make himself known? Did he dare break the spell she had cast? 

“Did you enjoy the show?”

James started, turning to the screen. Her silhouette ceased moving, the water going still. 

“You’re a connoisseur of fine music and I have never had any formal lessons. I hope I did not offend.”

“My lady, you could never do such a thing,” he moved to stand next the screen. “You forget that I have already heard you, and your lover, sing. What was that lovely song?”

“It’s from my one of my favorite stage performances, _The Phantom of the Opera_. Perhaps you would like it, a gothic romance. A disfigured genius hides in the shadows of a theater, falls in love with his protege but terrorizes her suitor. And though she does not return his feelings he is redeemed by her forgiveness.”

“Not exactly a happy ending, for a love story.”

“I could sing something from a happier tale, if you like. Though as a warning, many of them are just more love songs.”

He pulled a chair and sat down, kicking off his boots and making himself comfortable.

“You do have a penchant for the romantic.”

“I wrote short novels back home, Abigail always called me quite the hopeless romantic for a history-book worm.”

“A title well deserved,” he smiled. “Then tell me, as you are a student of history, of what I have missed,” he leaned back into the plush cushions. He watched her shadow as she reached for her sponge, resuming washing. 

“Anything in particular that you want to know?”

“What news from the realm of Antiquity?”

“Ah, yes, of course. You do have a penchant for the Classical world,” there was a smile in her words, he could hear it. “Mount Vesuvius erupted in the year 79, it was cataclysmic in its destruction. The first discovery of any of the towns the volcano covered was in 1709, when the ceiling of an ancient theater caved in. Excavations began in earnest in 1738.”

“Was this Herculaneum? I recall reading some news, a fading memory but I remember how exciting the idea was at the time.”

“Indeed it was. And ten years later the town of Pompeii was found as well. Remarkably preserved, the heat of the eruption petrifying everything from bread to bedroom furniture.” James sat up a little straighter, which Rose must have seen as she giggled a little. “Falling ash created a kind of cushion, the townspeople of Pompeii were captured in their final moments, from these casts were made.” He felt an excitement he had not experienced in years, the old thrill he used to get from academia. Ancient Romans preserved in ash? Two whole towns from nigh two millennia in the past, preserved so well? The possibilities of scholarship were mind boggling. 

“What else?”

“The art on the walls, beautiful mosaics and statues with much of their brightly colored paint still intact.”

“Painted sculptures?”

“Contrary to what was thought before, the marbles of the Greeks and Romans were not pure white but painted with brilliant pigments.” 

“Seems rather garish. How so?”

“To some, I rather like them actually. The skin is left white sometimes but mostly is flesh toned and the eyes are always very lifelike. Bright blues, reds and yellows are popular in clothes and hair. For example, Artemis or Diana is often depicted with ginger hair.” One brow raised at that. 

“What about records, there must have been libraries in both towns. Did they burn up in the inferno?”

“On the contrary. The lists of free citizens were carved in stone and survive, a high percentage in Herculaneum were freed slaves who made their fortunes there. Records still on their wax tablets were carbonized and left impressions still readable on the wood underneath. Scrolls still on their shelves were turned to a kind of charcoal and through modern technology they can be read. Many of which are assumed to be texts previously thought to be lost.”

“God Almighty.”

“Thought you might like that. Though the exclamation is a surprise. ”

“In this moment, I think that I am allowed some semblance of decorum, otherwise said exclamation would be something entirely uncouth.” 

“I could go on for hours with the all the history made and rediscovered you missed,” her shadow reached for the towel hanging over the screen. She could not quite reach it, sitting down as she was. He stood, sliding the soft linen over the wooden frame until she could grasp it. A murmured thanks echoed in the suddenly quiet room. 

“I would like that, very much so.”

“Eventually you would grow tired of hearing me chatter on and on,” she laughed as she stood. Emerging from the water, even half hidden, it was though he were watching a goddess rising from the sea. Generous curves and graceful limbs, beauty and wisdom blended as though made especially for him. 

“Tire of hearing your sweet voice? I highly doubt that.” 

She walked out from behind the screen and he swore his breath caught in his throat. Long auburn hair was pinned messily atop her head, a few tendrils clung to her cheek and shoulders. Pale skin was slightly flushed from the hot water, the linen towel clung to her still damp body. 

“The last thing I would care to do is bore you,” she reached for her dressing gown. His hand laid on hers, ceasing her from donning the satin robe. She looked up at him quizzically. 

“Allow me.” With a practised flourish, he held aloft of the pale lilac garment, equal to her shoulder height. Rose smiled and turned her back to him, letting the towel fall to the floor. The bandage was still tied around her shoulder, the tattoo was still healing, and she had to be careful with her movements. She slid her arms into the draping sleeves, and he drew the front closed, wrapping his arms around her in the process, ever mindful of her tender shoulder. 

“A rake and a scholar,” there was a teasing grin on her lips, he chuckled and pulled her close. 

“You already knew that, my pet,” he whispered against her throat. “Some day soon you shall have to tell me all the fruits of your labor in studying me, I am dying of curiosity.” She shivered in his arms and he felt the stirrings of arousal. 

“I would be happy to.” Warm fingertips caressed his wrist, her head tilting to give him better access to her neck. Her pulse quickened, he could feel it as he pressed kisses along her throat. “History paints quite the contradictory picture.”

“But do you find it a pleasing picture?”

“Do you really need to ask me that?” Rose looked across the room, her gaze trained on the bed where their lover slept. A clock chimed, but never ticked, the tenth hour. “I’ve spent the last four years spending long nights in libraries, taking notes until my hand was sore and applying for every research grant I could find just to continue learning more about you. There is no comprehensive book on your life, and I was determined to be the first.”

“And how did our dear Abigail handle such a tenacious agenda?”

“With unwavering support and many offerings of tea and chocolate.” He chuckled, holding her tighter against his chest. 

“The bond you share,” he nuzzled her neck, breathing deep the scent of flowers. “Stirs something deep within me that I cannot give a name to. And in some curious twist of fate, I am allowed to gain some portion of your hearts.” Her hands lifted, grasping his arms, her lips pressing a tender kiss to his palm. 

“And I thank the Fates every day for you both.” She said in a voice barely above a whisper. The ice around his heart cracked and melted. She turned in his embrace, her dark eyes devoid of any untruth, her face an open book that read of naught but affection. Thank the Fates indeed, were he a religious man he would have long since have fallen to his knees before their altar. He kissed her then, he could not help it. She was goodness and magic incarnate. And she was his. When they pulled apart he could see stirring upon the bed, Abigail was waking. They were his. 

“It is late, and we have already interrupted sweet Abigail’s slumber,” he guided her to the bedroom gallery with his hand at her lower back. 

“Not trying to seduce us tonight?”

“Later, little one,” he pulled back the covers for her. The robe slipped from her body as she climbed onto the feather mattress. She had to sleep on her belly, lest she break open her wounds anew. Sleepily Abigail pulled her close, nuzzling her face into Rose’s unmarked shoulder. As the witches settled into each other’s embrace, he rid himself of his clothes and brace. While it was not an easy feat to remove the leather harness on his own, he could not find it in himself to ask one of them to rise from their warm nest just for him. 

“You’re thinking too much,” the slightly muffled rebuke made him actually smile, a little. Tired blue eyes looked up at him, half lidded and almost sultry. Her arm lay across her lover, her hand beckoned him to join them. 

“Consider all thinking ceased,” he said as he relaxed into the silken sheets. He lay on his right side, so that he might reach across with his one good arm to hold them both. “Sleep now, my sorceresses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My co-author and I have also started a Tumblr blog for this story! We'll post things there to further develop the world of the story, flesh out our concepts for Neverland and the pirate islands, give you profiles and fun facts about Abigail and Rose, as well as journal entries from the private log of the Captain! Check us out and give it a follow! 
> 
> http://hookenchanted.tumblr.com/


	10. To the Breaking Point

Days passed leisurely. Despite his prior threats, Hook did allow his mistresses to go ashore again. Though only after arming them both with knives and pistols, which luckily enough they already had some basic skill in using. Their powers grew day by day but even they admitted that they were not quite as proficient as they wished to be. And so they carried the weapons he gave them and that was enough to soothe his mind. Abigail would return with news from the pixies, as word had apparently spread quickly of another mortal who could speak their language. Just as he surmised the winged folk were privy to Pan’s exploits and plans. The Boy was planning to ‘rescue’ the ladies from the villainous pirates. The three of them would plot how to shatter the flying imp’s noble intentions over dinner, it became a favorite topic between them. Rose would return from the island bearing samples of flora that she hung to dry in the windows of the cabin. Alongside his own collection of poisons she would place her own samples, though whereas his potions brought pain hers were of a more caring nature. She began to infuse her concoctions with magic and so her tattoo, a swirling J and H, healed in record time. Though the ointment that did the deed was gone rather quickly. Apparently the key ingredient only grew on the shore of Mermaid Lagoon and the devil-fish were not keen to share their harvest. 

To all this the crew watched and said nothing. At least to his face. 

According to Mr. Smee, there was still lascivious talk below deck in regards to his women. To this, Hook kept a sharp eye and an open ear. A good number of the men knew to keep their distance, wary of being blown overboard or caught by a bolt of lightning. But far too many of them had not laid eyes on a decently attractive female in some time. He was just reviewing the possibility of setting sail for port with Mr. Starkey, after the disposal of Pan of course, when a loud ruckus of laughter filled the air. Both captain and first mate turned to the starboard side, where a group of sailors were clustered together over a game of dice. 

“Mr. Starkey, do you have any inkling as to what they are placing wages against?”

“Unfortunately I do, Cap’n,” the man looked as though he were trying very hard to retain his stone faced facade. 

“Do tell.” 

“Those are the men who never quite warmed up to yer...lady friends,” he spoke very carefully, treading lightly as not to incur his captain’s wrath. Smart man. Hook nodded for   
him to continue. “And they don’t think all that well of them, to be honest.”

“A blind man could see that.”

“But a few of them, Scourie especially, be taking bets on when you’ll get tired of them. And to add to that, they all been placin’ wages on who gets them when you’re done. There’s a waiting list, as I heard it.” 

“Is there now?” His words, though unassuming and almost polite, were laced with venom. “Perhaps I should place my own bet, show the men I am not so above them that I cannot spend quality time with my own crew.” Starkey followed like an obedient pup as Hook crossed the deck. Several of the sailors heard the heavy fall of his boots as he approached, and hurriedly alerted their mates of his arrival. All throwing of dice ceased, the clang of coins went silent. All eyes were trained on him. 

“Afternoon, sir,” a chorus of greeting resounded from the motley group. 

“I hear rumors of a wager going on amongst you.” The men’s faces went white, or at least the ones who still possessed a shred of self preservation did. One man in particular stood out, he had no expression of apology in the least.

“Care to hear the stakes, Cap’n?” George Scourie tossed a sack of coins from one hand to the other. 

“I have some idea already,” he said tightly with the smile of a viper. 

“You’ve been letting them run off lately,” the man nodded towards the island. “Can’t be all that homey with two females turning the place into a flower shop,” a few of the duller men guaffed at that. Hook was silent. 

“And you seek to profit from this?”

“Ain’t no rules against gambling aboard.”

“Indeed there are not.”

“As I bet, it’ll be that long haired tart who’ll come sniffing around first. She’s more quiet than the other one, the quiet ones are always the randy ones behind closed doors. But I sees the darker one being more of a chase, she’s feisty.”

“You seem quite sure of yourself,” he began tracing the wickedly sharp edge of his hook. Several men backed up but the fool still continued to run his foul mouth, more interested in his grog than his life. 

“It seems to us that you’ve been being quite selfish, Captain,” the pirate Scourie leered even as the hook began to hunger with every word spoken. “Keeping such pretty ladies locked away all for yourself in the cabin….We was thinking you ought to share, sir. Give us all a taste of their charms, as it were.” He guffawed, a lecherous grin on his face. “We’re sure we could use the sport of playing with them. Whoever catches them first can have the first fuck - ”

The musket ball tore into his belly and he dropped with a scream. 

Hook turned in surprise - the shot had not come from him. 

Standing on the quarterdeck, holding a smoking pistol, with hair blowing in the breeze like a goddess of vengeance, Abigail stood with Rose by her side. Both women stared coldly down at the fallen pirate. 

“Good shot, darling,” Rose said with all the warmth of a proud teacher, turning to her lover and ignoring the groans of pain. “You’re getting much better at this. I’m so glad we had a target for you to practise on.”

“I was aiming for his head,” Abigail said sourly, frowning at where the blood was staining the belly of the man’s shirt. 

“That’s because you were aiming straight, love,” Rose said, “Remember, with this kind of weighted pistol, you aim your arm up and the weight of the muzzle will bring it down a little. You have to line the barrel above your intended target with the wrist tilted down.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Abigail said, stormy eyes sweeping over the rest of the crew, who quailed. James barely kept back a smitten smile. 

“Throw him overboard,” Hook ordered. 

“Oh no, Captain,” Rose said, “He’s not dead yet. That would be barbaric. Abigail and I will care for him. At the very least, we’ll keep the parts of him we can use for spells.”

The witches laughed and the crew scrambled to move the man below deck while James took the steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time to press hungry kisses to his mistresses’ mouths. 

“Mine,” he growled. Their eyes sparkled at the word.

“Come prove it, then,” they whispered.

The cabin door slammed shut behind them. 

***

He stood above them, smirking down to where his loves lay entwined in each other’s arms. They blinked up at him through sultry lashes, inviting him back to their arms with soft moans and flexing of lithe limbs. They offered him their breasts and their cunts, still filled with his seed. They had satisfied each other again and again, he enacted his claim upon them, much to their vocal delight. At last, he dragged himself away from the tempting sorceresses as they giggled at him. 

“You dare keep a captain from his duties?” he smirked teasingly. Rose gave a slow, languid, careless shrug and Abigail’s blue eyes sparkled wickedly at him. He grunted an amused reply and began pulling his clothes back on. He had just buckled his belt over his waistcoat when he froze, a slight choking sound leaving his throat as his eyes widened. The women, happily nuzzling into each other’s arms, glanced up at the sound.

“James?” Abigail asked sharply, “What is it?”

“James?” Rose pressed when he did not answer. She got up to slip a dressing gown over her naked body, drawing the scarlet sash tight about her waist. James still had not moved.

It was then that they heard it. The tick ticking of the crocodile. They also froze. The horrid sound was growing louder and louder and James’ eyes flicked to the panes of his window, from whence the ticking sound seemed to emanate, and the women’s eyes followed his. The beast must be beneath the very cabin where they now were. James was as still as stone, frozen in the very act of sliding into one sleeve of his coat, blue eyes trained upon the window where a shadow loomed. The beast must be rearing up out of the water, preparing to strike, to claim the rest of the captain, to snap him up between his great jaws and finish the job he started long ago. There could be nothing worse than an end met in the throat of the great reptile.

Then the window flew open with a mighty crow and the Boy soared into the cabin, pearly teeth bared and dagger in his small hand and James’ lip curled in hate. 

“Hullo, ladies!” he crowed, hovering before the bed with a cocky grin, “I’ve come to rescue you from the old codfish like I said I would! Let’s go!”

And with no further ado, he snatched Rose’s wrist and, with disproportionate strength for such a tiny boy, hauled her into the air. She screamed, kicking as her feet left the ground. The Boy yanked her after him out the window and Rose, looking down to see the Crocodile open its gaping maw, shrieked. James, petrified by the reptile, did not move. Abigail, clutching a sheet to her naked breast, answered with a furious cry of her own and blindly snatched at the pistol at James’s hip. Drawing it, she aimed it out the window but could not get a clear shot of the monster. She tried anyway, firing a resounding shot that echoed but found no target. Pan crowed his victory. 

“Come on, lads,” he shouted, “Back to the Hideout with our new mother!”

It was only then that James and Abigail realised that sounds of fighting were reaching them from the deck. The wretched Boy must have brought his whole band with him to distract the rest of the crew. But Rose was the only thing that mattered. Abigail dropped the sheet and raced to the window taking aim again with the pistol again, but both the monster and the Boy were far out of range. And so was their Rose. 

“James!” she shrieked, turning upon him. “Get yourself together!”

He stood, frozen, and her hand cracked across his face. He came to himself to find her naked before him, eyes frozen with rage. She threw the pistol at him and he caught it reflexively. 

“We need to save her now!”

***

Battle was a foul and ugly thing, when one found themselves on the losing side. Where but moments before bloodlust and exhilaration had taken over his every sense, now his veins ran cold with ice. 

The skirmish had been going according to plan, the unsuspecting Lost Boys had neither seen nor heard the band of pirates closing in on them. Their mission had been far removed from their usual intent. Whereas usually Hook plotted to discover the secret hideaway of Pan and his miscreants, this time he meant only to track them to wherever it was they made camp. During the Boy’s own attack but a few hours previous the vile brat had dared to break into his cabin amidst the fray and take prisoner his fair Rose. He could hear her screams ringing in his ears, see in his mind’s eye how closely Pan dangled her above the gaping maw of the Crocodile. And what had he done at the time? Stood paralyzed with fear at the sight of the reptile, his hand actually shaking, lip trembling. All the while, beside him Abigail was barely keeping a sheet to her breast as she pulled a pistol from his belt, but the beast was far out of range. She shook him to his senses, icy eyes ablaze with blue fire as she demanded he come to his right mind or else she would go after them alone. As his courage returned to him, terror gave way to rage and he knew even without consulting a mirror that his own eyes were glowing with scarlet. 

It was not a difficult trail to track, the broken branches and marks of feet being dragged through the dirt were easy enough for a child to follow. But the march still took precious time, first to gather their weapons, ready the long boat and finally row to shore. Mr. Starkey scouted ahead, being one of the more silent amongst them. When he came hurrying back it was with news of locating the whole tribe of mewling spawn in a glade not far off, their prisoner bound at the wrists and surrounded by filthy children just starting to realize they could extract a few stories from her. It might have been laughable, had the lady involved been any other than one of his own. When they attacked the brats were caught off guard, out of the corner of his eye he even saw one of them meet his bitter demise at the end of Abigail’s cutlass. It was swift, brutal and bloody, beyond his fury he was only just beginning to enjoy himself. And then a volley of arrows was loosed by the triplet boys, taking down two of his men at the legs. Guns were drawn and lead balls answered the primitive weapons. Another feral child fell in a splatter of gore before Pan deemed it time to retreat. But there would be no time to relish their victory, a shrill cry brought his attention to a sight that was sure to haunt his nightmares for time unknown.

Her hands had been freed from the vine rope which held them tightly behind her back. But not quickly enough to allow her to defend herself in the short battle. 

“It ain’t a fatal wound, Cap’n,” he heard Smee say, though the words were muffled to his ears. “But we gotta get her back to the ship for proper treatment.”

“And best not risk pulling out that arrow, she might bleed out ‘fore we get her there,” Starkey carefully broke the greater part of the shaft and tossed it aside. Rose whimpered in pain, jerking slightly, her eyes shut tightly. She was biting down on her lower lip hard enough to draw a drop of crimson. It had struck her high on the right shoulder, painful but not lethal. Yet the agony on her face was a dagger to his heart and fuel to the fire that now roared within him.

For once, James could not find his words and could only nod in reply. An ever growing stain dyed her dressing gown, his really, an even darker shade of red with her blood. Crystalline tears fell from her eyes like rivers, her head cradled in the lap of her lover. Abigail was brushing the hair that clung to her wet cheeks, carefully pulling leaves accumulated on the flight from the long tresses. She was murmuring something that sounded almost lyrical. Dark azure ribbons of magic meandered down her arms, swirling where her fingertips touched the wet cheeks of their lady. 

“This will not heal her, but will take away some of the pain.” Abigail’s voice was chilled and quiet, and several of the crew shivered. Many of the men already possessed a healthy dose of fear for the witches, this however was something entirely different. 

“Prepare a stretcher!” he barked at those standing around. A few of the sailors jolted, as though they had forgotten he was present. The nearest fool fell to the dirt, the Hook eager to sate his thirst for vengeance. 

“Who shot her?” He turned his gaze to that nightmarish sight at the younger witch’s words, keeping his eyes anywhere but what was left of the protruding arrow. 

“One of the identical triplets,” he ground out as he began to pace. “There will be no way to tell which one of them did the deed.”

“So all three of them will die.” Abigail said, voice as crisp and cold as the deep winter freeze. Her blue eyes never glanced away from Rose’s pale face, still focusing on weaving her healing songs around the body of her lover, but every pirate to a man heard each one of her chilled syllables. Rose’s hazel eyes were glazed with magic and pain, lashes fluttering even as she struggled to keep them open to look up at the unnaturally calm face of her beloved. The Hook rubbed his claw distractedly, his own forget-me-not eyes still hazed over with bloody scarlet in his fury at the sight of one of his mistresses harmed at the hands of the Boy and his filthy brats.

The stretcher prepared, the younger of the sorceresses finally allowed her Rose to be taken from her lap and lain upon the canvas. She whimpered in pain at the movement, her hand reaching for Abigail’s. Their fingers entwined, Hook watching, and his pale eyed lady leaned down to press a kiss to their wounded love’s forehead. At the touch of her lips to Rose’s wan skin, a ripple of magic flowed down her prone body and, when Abigail pulled away, Rose’s eyes were closed, her breathing even and deep. The dark-haired witch cupped her love’s cheek in her hand, stroking at her soft skin with a tenderness offset by the frigid cruelty in her calm, cold face. 

“Take her to the ship,” was the witch’s command and the crew did not hesitate to obey, lifting the stretcher with the wounded witch and beginning the trek back to the beach where the longboats had been left. As the rustling of the leaves faded behind the men’s movements, the Hook and the Sorceress were left standing alone in the clearing. The dirt was rapidly soaking up the blood not smeared across the deep green leaves. Abigail’s blue-grey gaze followed the path taken by the pirates bearing away Rose’s stretcher, her jaw tight and proud. The island breeze blew suddenly chilly, stirring both her dark curls and those of the captain who stood watching one of his beloved witches. 

“That Boy has caused me pain immeasurable for far too long,” James snarled, his hand curling into a furious fist. “He took my hand from me, set that beast of a croc upon me, stole away our Rose, and shed her blood. I will not stand for it! If ever before I had thought myself turned solely to the purpose of Pan’s destruction, those rages of my past pale before my oath here and now that I will have all my grievances avenged!”

“Your grievances?”

Abigail’s proud face was still calm though now hard as stone as her head turned to meet his gaze. The ice in her eyes was now turned on him, blue ice meeting crimson fire, and the words wedged in James’ throat. 

“ _Your grievances?_ ” Her voice was little more than a cruel hiss, her lip curling in a frigid sneer. “This is no longer about your petty vendetta, James. This is not about you, Man. Your childish obsession with the Boy has brought pain upon yourself and now upon one whom we love. This is not all about _you_ , James Hook, not anymore. You are more a child than he.”

And with a rustle of leaves, she was gone and he was left to his rage. 

***

They did not look at each other. They did not speak to each other. They did not acknowledge each other. He was filled with fury, at the Boy who had harmed his Rose and also at the witch who stood nearby as they waited for the surgeon. Her words echoed in his ears and his hook twitched in anger. She did not know his pain. It was not she who had faced the agony of having a hand hacked away, of having a crocodile hunger for his flesh, of facing the mocking face of Pan and be defeated again and again. His obsession with the Boy was perfectly justified, righteous, and not at all _childish_. But of course there was no point talking to _her_ about it. She stood there as though carved from ice, empty and devoid of emotion as she waited with frigid patience. At least he felt rage and fury and passion. Better than the sorceress who felt nothing - the sorceress who was not fully human. Where her pixie cousins could only feel one emotion at a time because of their tiny bodies, Abigail surely felt nothing. There was nothing in her eyes but ice.

He did not see the way her jaw tightened, the way her pulse beat erratically under her skin, the way her fingers were clenched as she folded her arms over her chest. He did not see the way her eyes flicked across everything, unable to settle on anything, ears straining for any noise from inside the cabin where the surgeon worked. Her coldness was her fear, her worry, and her fury. Her ice was all of her emotions raging beneath the surface, unable to settle on one reaction. But he did not see. 

The door creaked open. Hook instantly jerked towards the door, but the surgeon’s weary voice called for the sorceress and she, with frigid grace, swept past the captain and into the cabin. 

Her feet stopped along with her heart at the sight of Rose on the table. Long auburn hair sloppily braided and tossed out of the way, torso bare and smeared with blood from where the surgeon’s work had gotten messier. The wound on her shoulder no longer spouted the shaft of an arrow and, though cleaner than before, was not stitched closed. The surgeon stood off to the side, watching her look at her lover. Rose’s eyes were closed, she was still sleeping soundly under the charm Abigail had kissed upon her brow and she looked so pale smeared with her own blood. 

“I’ve done what I can for her short of patchin’ up her wound,” the surgeon said, “And I was wondering if ye’d be able to do anythin’ for her with yer magic, miss.”

Abigail’s hands shook as she reached out to caress Rose’s cheek, her teeth closing on her bottom lip with worry. 

“I’ve never done healing magic like this,” she whispered, allowing the ice to melt a little as she faced the surgeon. “Magic in our world is different than here, I don’t….I wouldn’t be able to control it….I don’t know if I could…”

“I have seen ye speak with the faeries,” the surgeon said, “call the winds, sing up a storm to rival the very maelstroms of the ocean. Ye and Mistress Rose have controlled nature itself, worked dark magic upon yer enemies - there is naught ye cannot do.”

“Destruction magic,” Abigail whispered, her voice trembling, “blood magic, death magic, storm magic….never healing. Everything I touch dies, I would make her worse.”

“She loves ye,” the surgeon said, “Ye can do it.”

Outside the cabin, Hook was pacing. Every terrible thought of what could have gone wrong was racing through his head. He unscrewed and re-screwed his hook in his agitation, muttering distractedly to himself. That Boy would pay with his life and more for this. He had only just allowed himself to admit to _feelings_ for his women, he would not lose them so soon. Not even one of them. Pan’s attack on one of his loves was only kindling to the flame of his hate of the Boy and his hunger for revenge. He hungered for the sight of Pan’s blood upon the very hook which the Boy had forced him to wear since his severed, mangled hand was thrown to the crocodile. 

He despised the feeling of uselessness, having fought so hard over the course of his long life to obtain every scrap of control he could. But he had never learned any of the healing arts beyond anatomical sketches in university texts. He could maim and destroy both the mind and body, but he could not mend them again. 

All such melancholy thoughts were put to a sudden halt by the glow emitting from the cracks of the surgery door. Deep blue, shining with silver like stars in the night sky, began softly as a candle’s light until it nearly blinded him. Covering his face with his sleeve, he waited, slowly peeking out only after several minutes of deafening silence. All around him, members of the crew were rubbing their own eyes, blinking back tears and staring with a mix of confusion and awe. James had barely adjusted to the ordinary light when a sharp, pain filled cry issued from beyond the door. Uncaring of anything other than the frantic beating of his heart, he rushed forward, the door slamming behind him. 

“Easy, darling!” Abigail was leaning over the table as the surgeon held down flailing limbs of the wounded woman between them. “I know it still hurts but you cannot rip the wound open again.”

“It looks like she’s been healin’ for days,” the aged doctor said in amazement.

“I had hoped for better results but this will have to do.” 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” His words were crude but he did not give a damn about his oratory skills. All he could see was the blood on pale flesh and the teary eyes now turned toward him. Her hope at seeing him enter was flecks of gold among the brown, pain already in her eyes.

“Mistress Abigail worked her magic and healed Mistress Rose, at least in part,” the man in the blood stained apron reached for a roll of bandages. “It was miraculous, Cap’n.”

“Thank you, Doctor Blake,” his voice while not hollow, did not reverberate with its usual prowess. “Give me those,” he held out his hand. “I will handle things from here.” The bandages were relinquished, without a word of protest and the good doctor left with a slight bow to him and a gentle smile to the witch who had yet to acknowledge Hook’s existence. For one moment, which passed by far slower than actuality would claim, the only sound to be heard was the shortened breaths of the wounded lady before them. And then he was shedding his black coat, hanging it from a peg on the wall, and rolling up his billowing sleeves. His hook was unscrewed and set upon the doctor’s desk, where it could do no unintentional damage. 

This was all he could do for his love, carefully bind her wound so that if the tender flesh still red and sparkling with magic should tear, then her blood would not flow too freely. Abigail never moved, forcing him to walk around the edge of the table to stand opposite her. She had done this remarkable act. Doctor Blake was correct in his observation, the wound would not even need stitches. What should have taken days had been healed in mere seconds. With a touch more gentle than any he would have ever known he possessed, he assisted Abigail in propping Rose into a seated position. Her hiss of pain cut him to the quick but he caught himself before an apology slipped from his lips. Already he had caused her enough pain, asking her forgiveness was not something he could do when her blood was still fresh on the surgeon’s table. As he wound each length of bleached white cotton around her back and between her bare breasts, he did his best to keep his thoughts far from the lurking darkness of his mind. 

Abigail had healed her, so well in fact that there would not even be a scar come morning. Yet Rose was their healer, ever the caring nurse forcing magically infused soups upon the sick. But under duress, the witch’s powers would falter somewhat; she could not have healed her own arrow wound. They had been so lucky...the wound had been on her right side but if it had been on the left...Hook refused to think about what horror might have been. But now he felt his uselessness even more profoundly. This was all his fault. He could not protect her from Pan. He could not track her quickly enough, did not even notice when one of the wild boys let his arrow fly. 

“Stop...blaming yourself,” her sweet voice was strained and barely above a whisper. He ceased his motions, turning his attention to her face. Those ever changing eyes of hers were free of tears but red from weeping, her flesh paler than usual. Rage threatened to overtake him, seeing her brought down like this. “I don’t have to hear you...to know what you’re thinking.” 

“You should not talk,” he gently scolded her. Why must she know him so well? “Save your strength.”

She was mostly propped up on Abigail’s shoulder, her head lolled back into the curve of the other witch’s throat. Her hand, so much smaller than his own, reached up to twine her fingers with his despite the bandage he held. 

“You two are fighting, I can sense it...please don’t,” her gaze was pleading. “You two make my heart whole...It hurts me when you quarrel.” Words failed him so often of late, he wondered if he would ever be able to put into prose how deeply her simple request touched him. 

“Shhh, my flower,” Abigail nuzzled the top of her head. “All will be as it should be. Now is a time for rest.” 

“You might be angry at one another...but you still act exactly alike.” She sighed, her light grip on his hand tightening ever so slightly. “We will talk later?”

“If that is what you wish.” He could not deny either of them anything, even if he was waging an internal battle with one of them. His Rose needed him. For once he put aside his fury for the sake of another and attended to her however he could. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her soft auburn hair. 

“I love you both...oh so much...” Those were her last final words before Abigail sent her back into a magical slumber, where pain and anger held no sway. A peaceful place of dreams that he could only hope would be open to him once again.

“Take her to bed.”

The frost in Abigail’s voice had melted somewhat, but she still refused to look at him. Without a word, he gathered Rose into his arms, lifting her easily and turning toward the door of the surgeon’s cabin. At the door, he paused to look back at the dark-haired witch. She was leaning heavily on the surgeon’s table, her hand reaching for the bottle of rum the surgeon had used to disinfect the wound. She took a long drink, her eyes fluttering closed as she inhaled deeply. He shouldered the door open and bore the unconscious Rose back to his cabin. 

The second the door closed behind him, Abigail slumped against the wooden table, exhaustion washing over her. She could curse without second thought, sing up a storm with little more than a whistle, work dark magic with a flick of her finger, but the healing magic had taken more effort than her usual spells and left her feeling drained. She took another swig of rum, choking on the burning alcohol as she tried desperately to keep herself upright. 

She set the bottle down and stumbled to the door, hardly able to move her limbs after all the energy she had expended to heal her Rose. She pushed the door open, the rocking of the ship sending her staggering against the doorframe. Abigail’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she fought her fatigue, pushing herself upright to make her way towards the deck. She hugged the mast, the night breeze barely reviving her. Her pale skin seemed all the more wan under the night-sky and she leaned heavily against the wood. Darkness gathered at the corners of her eyes and she succumbed to it, sprawling across the deck, unconscious and drained.


	11. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that my co-author and I have started a Tumblr blog for this fanfic! The blog fleshes out the world we've created and added to, provides future excerpts, offers more information about Abigail and Rose, and offers the chance for people to ask questions of the characters. Give it a look!
> 
> http://hookenchanted.tumblr.com/

Hook had just laid aside the dressing gown Rose had hastily donned that afternoon, stained with smears of blood and dirt. The garment was not worth salvaging, both it and his own shirt, ruined as he held her close, would be burned on the morrow. Carefully, he pulled the sheet up to her collar. Her cheeks were gaining their color back, her breathing growing more steady. A heavy weight had been upon him from the moment he turned around in the jungle and saw her bleeding and broken on the ground. Gently, he stroked her cheek, down her throat and rested over the reassuring beat of her heart. In her delirium she had confessed her love, not just for her beloved Abigail...but for him. 

“I am sorry.” The apology was low, a whisper and only uttered now when there was no one present to hear it. But that did not diminish the sentiment, he would never be able to gain the forgiveness he craved. 

“Captain!”

Hook’s gaze shot up to the door and wished he had not. 

“What is this?” he hissed.

Mr. Cecco had shouldered his way inside for his arms were full of unconscious woman. Abigail lay unmoving in the Italian’s grip, her head lolling over his arm, one frail hand hanging limply down her side. 

“What have you done?” his voice rose as he stood from his vigil. Rushing forward, his right arm readied to strike, until he realized his hook still lay useless in the surgery. 

“I haven’t done anything, _Capitano!_ I swear!” The man had the decency to tremble but nearly dropped the lady in the process. James had barely crossed the cabin in time to catch her. Glowering fiercely, he held her tightly to his chest. This was too much, too soon. His heart was pounding like a hammer in his chest, first one and now the other...

“Explain. Now.”

“I just come top side to take my turn at the watch,” Cecco said in a hurry. “But as soon as I come up I saw something on the deck, right by the main mast. I walked up and I found her there and brought her to you.”

Hook examined the man, looked him right in the eye. Under his gaze, Cecco began to sweat, his fingers twitching with his nerves. But for all the fear, he could not see falsity in the man. He was almost disappointed, his blood lust was riding high and nothing soothed his rage quite like a good gutting. 

“Back to your post.” His man nodded and hurried from the cabin with the haste of the hounds of hell at his heels. Once the door slammed shut, James looked down at the exhausted face of his dark haired mistress. As furious as he currently was with the witch, he could not remain so when she had worked herself into unconsciousness. Sighing, he brought her to their bed, laying her down next to their lover. He also freed her of any constraining clothing and tucked her into the silk sheets. It took some time, but he was used to going about such tasks with naught but one hand. All through the process, he kept close watch on the sleeping Abigail. It would not do to have her waken and accuse him of anything untoward. However she did not wake, the healing magic had taken all her strength. 

He needed air. The day had tried him to the point of collapse. 

Opening one of the large bay windows, he breathed deeply of the calming sea air. A warm breeze toyed with his curls. In the distance he could hear the song of a mermaid. Peaceful, the sanctity of the night offered some respite from the tidal wave of emotions that threatened to bring a dreaded tear to his eye. Laughing bitterly, he thought of how Rose would want to keep his poisonous red tears for her magical ingredient cabinet. Or how Abigail would begin a list of those she wanted to experiment on with the substance. 

His women, so perfect they were. And now they were hurt, pained, and angry. It was not clear to him how he would mend the rift between him and Abigail. Regardless, he would not tolerate the feud to last beyond the next sunrise. And Rose would not be leaving his sight for a month. Those vile children would pay and he would not be lenient in the actions of his vengeance. 

***

Rose awakened first, the pain of her shoulder having lessened greatly since she could last remember. She had fallen asleep on the hard wood of the surgeon’s table, held reverently in the arms of her sorceress love and her Captain. Now she was nestled in a feather mattress, surrounded by pillows, the sunlight filtering through the panes of the cabin’s windows, and James Hook was sitting on the cushions of the window-seat, watching her. 

He had re-acquired his hook from the surgeon’s room during the night. He had not slept, too concerned with watching his ladies. His eyes were weary but intent upon her form and the moment he saw her stir, he straightened, clicking his hook back into place. 

“Rose.”

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and Rose blinked blearily, pushing herself up on her hands. Her head was surprisingly clear considering the events of yesterday but James rose at once with concern anyway. She glanced down at the bandages on her shoulder, remembering the arrow, the surgeon, the healing touch of her Abigail, and the rage in both of her lover’s eyes - one fiery and one icy. As she shifted, she felt the weight of another body beside her and she twisted to see Abigail lying beside her, dark curls spreading across the red brocade of the bedspread. 

“What happened?” Rose whispered to the Hook, careful not to wake her pale lover. 

“She over-exerted herself healing you with her magic.” His voice was crisp and rough, but still soft enough to be stealthy as he padded closer to his bed. “The foolish girl. She sent me away to take you to bed and was found collapsed on the deck by one of the crew. She did not _tell_ me she was weak…”

“Of course she didn’t,” Rose whispered, reaching down to brush curls from Abigail’s face. “She’s too proud.”

“It will be the death of her,” he growled.

“I could say the same of you, James,” Rose said quietly, glancing up at him. He subsided into silence, pressing his lips together. The tiniest furrow of concern was wrinkling his brow and Rose saw it at once. She reached for his hand. To his credit, he did not jerk his hand away. Her fingers brushed his and he released the angry breath he was holding. 

“I’ve been thinking…” he said, fighting his instinct to silence himself and stop talking about _feelings._

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Rose grinned. James scowled half-heartedly. 

“I was _thinking_ ,” he said again, “that she….might have been right….about me.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Rose smiled before her grip on his hand tightened slightly and she frowned, “What exactly did she say?”

“Your childish obsession with the Boy has brought pain upon yourself and now upon one whom we love.” He quoted drily, “You are more a child than he.”

“She didn’t,” Rose gasped, eyes widening. 

“Aye,” he growled, “she did. And there might be….merit to what she says.”

“James,” Rose began, but Hook’s face instantly closed off as Abigail stirred. 

She rolled onto her back, arm stretching above her head as her back arched with a groan. Her dark lashes fluttered open and she blinked up confusedly at the red canopy of the captain’s bed. She turned to Rose, the confusion in her eyes quickly being replaced with concern at the sight of her lover upright and awake. She sat up quickly, dark curls tossing. 

“Rose!” She exclaimed, “Rose, you shouldn’t be up! You should be resting!”

“I doubt that,” Rose smiled, cupping Abigail’s cheek gently, “Your healing worked wonders yesterday.”

“I...what?”

Rose began unwinding the bandages around her shoulder and between her breasts. As she worked, Abigail and James’ eyes met for the briefest of moments. Remembering her anger at him, Abigail looked away. James scowled. Rose’s breasts were bared and the bandages fell away to show a slight jagged line marring her creamy skin. 

Abigail’s eyes widened slightly and she reached out to brush the healing mark with her fingertip. 

“Tis a marvel,” James said quietly, looking down at his women. 

“It is,” Abigail agreed, unthinkingly. A heartbeat later, her eyes hardened and she turned away from him, making a show of combing through her hair with her fingers and stretching after her sleep. “Should I even ask how it is I find myself in your bed, Captain? After all, this was not where I fell asleep last night.”

James hid a grimace at the sharp accusation in her voice. His spine stiffened in remembered anger from the previous night and he growled in response, “Should I have let Mister Cecco keep you to himself after he found you sprawled upon the deck, then?”

Her head whipped around at that, dark curls flying. “A man as possessive, jealous, and _childish_ as you would never let someone else play with your _toys_.” 

His hook twitched. This was not going as planned. 

“Abigail!” Rose snapped, “I was shot in the shoulder yesterday! If you want me to heal quickly, then stop fighting and play nicely.”

Abigail subsided into silence but James’ arms wound themselves around Rose’s torso as he seated himself on the edge of the mattress, gathering her lovingly to his chest. “If you neglect to be kind to our Rose, then perhaps I shall?”

Abigail fairly _crackled_ with rage. “How _dare_ you! Rose and I were in love _long_ before you were _ever_ in our lives or our dreams!”

“And see how you’ve treated her!” James fired back, “She is weak and healing and you can do naught but pick fights.”

“I _healed_ her!” Abigail shouted, leaping to her feet, “What did you do? You were too focused on Pan and his brats that you could not protect her! It is _your fault_ she was ever wounded in the first place!”

One of Rose’s arms wrapped around his waist and the other reached for her lover. “Please, stop fighting,” Rose pleaded. “There is no one to blame but Pan! It is his fault, no one else’s! There is no need to be unkind to each other.” 

“No, if he had been paying attention to the women he _loves_ instead of pursuing his childish vendetta against a boy, then you wouldn’t have been hurt!” Abigail snarled, “He needs to learn how to pick on people his own size and how to let things go.”

“But the crocodile!” Rose argued. 

“The fact that he is brought to terrified, trembling stillness by a reptile speaks to his deficiency as a man.”

Forget-me-not eyes flamed red. 

Both women saw this. Rose gasped. Abigail smiled coldly. 

Rose’s arms entwined around the captain’s waist, “James! James, she didn’t mean it.”

“Oh yes I did,” Abigail sneered. “He knows I did. I meant it and what I said yesterday. And he’s so affected by it because he knows it’s _true_.”

Hook moved to lunge for her throat but Rose threw herself against him with a cry, “No! James, please!” 

“See?” Abigail bared her teeth in a vindictive smile, “He’s trying to compensate.”

“Witch!” He roared, trying valiantly to keep his anger in check to avoid harming Rose who clung to him desperately as he leapt to his feet. 

“Why yes, I am,” Abigail curtsied as best and as gracefully as she could in the long shirt which covered her body. “Though I do believe the word you actually mean begins with the letter B instead. Someone who studied Latin at Oxford ought to have a better command of the English language. But, then again, you never did complete your degree, did you?”

“Out!” He bellowed, bloodlust in his veins, his hook twitching. “Get OUT!”

Silence filled the cabin and Abigail’s eyes turned to ice. 

“As you command, Captain.”

The door slammed behind her. 

The only sound in the cabin was James’ heavy breathing. Rose’s nails dug into his skin as she gaped after the way Abigail had left, at what James had almost done. He permitted her to cling to him, his chest rising and falling as his anger coursed through his veins. 

At last, Rose dared to break the silence. 

“James?” Her voice was soft and cautious, her green-tinted eyes looking up at him, wide and worried. 

His jaw clenched, a muscle tightening in his cheek. He said nothing, but his good arm wrapped over her shoulders and resting against her back, pulled her tighter against him. It was as comforting a gesture as any. The red was slowly fading from his eyes as his pulse returned to normal. 

“James?” Rose tried again. He looked down at her, taking in the worry in her eyes and the concern tightening her lips. He eased himself back onto the mattress beside her. She pressed her face against his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of smoke and salt. “She’ll cool off eventually.”

“She’s more likely to freeze entirely.”

“Stop that!” Rose scolded him, “She may have picked the fight, but you responded to it and antagonized her. I swear, the two of you are so similar sometimes…”

“Darling,” he cooed, his voice turning terribly beautiful as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “Much as I am loath to begin the day with conflict, I am very pleased to be able to spend time with you in my arms. You must take the day to rest, laze about in bed, and I shall wait upon you, my lady love.”

Rose, realizing the way he had turned the conversation away from the uncomfortable tension of the morning, scowled but nevertheless allowed him to pull her back against the pillows. She snuggled upon his chest, pressing against his warm body and taking comfort from the security of his presence. 

“Apologies will have to be made,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“There is not enough rum on the Island for that to happen,” was his growled response. 

***

The cabin door slammed behind her and Abigail stood on the quarter-deck of the ship, breathing in the ocean air and fuming silently to herself. The breeze fluttered the hem of the long shirt she wore, tickling at her thighs but Abigail paid no attention to the playful wind, turning stubbornly away to slam a hand down against the ship’s side railing. 

The last thing she remembered from the night before had been stumbling, weak and drained, from the surgeon’s cabin after healing Rose. Nothing more. Then she had awoken in _his_ bed, exhausted and disoriented, and now she found herself seething with rage after a shouting match with the man she loved. All in all, a very bad morning. 

King James II wound between her ankles, meowing loudly, and Abigail bent down to scoop him into her arms. He pressed his black-and-white face against her cheek and she cuddled him close. 

“You know,” she said to the cat, “you are much more affectionate than the other James on this ship.”

James II meowed and flicked his tail. 

She carried him down the stairs to the main-deck whereupon he squirmed free and dropped to the planks to go chasing after a particularly bold rat. She watched him go with a sigh and a half smile and turned around to nearly collide with a concerned looking Smee. 

“Mister Smee!” She exclaimed in surprise, “I beg your pardon.”

“Not at all, Miss,” he said, straightening his glasses upon his nose. He took a moment to look carefully at Abigail’s face before saying kindly, “Is everything alright, Miss?”

“What do you mean?” Abigail asked sharply, her eyes narrowing. 

“We could hear the shouting, Miss,” Smee said quietly. Abigail glanced quickly around the deck to where some of the crew lingered, watching her cautiously. 

“Could you, now?” Abigail said, raising her voice to address the entire crew, eyes flashing sharp as steel. “Did you hear anything of interest, gentlemen?”

“No, Ma’am,” they chorused hastily. 

“Back to work, then.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” 

They vanished below-decks and to the rigging and the crow’s nest, leaving the sorceress alone on the main-deck with the bo’sun. Mister Smee fixed her with a kind if stern look over his spectacles and Abigail pointedly avoided looking at him. 

“Would you like to talk about it, Miss?”

“No,” Abigail answered a little too vigorously. 

“Would you like some rum, then, Miss?”

Abigail paused, considering. 

“Yes.”

“It so happens I have some right here,” the Irishman produced a glass bottle from behind his back. 

“You, sir, are a saint.” She took a long drought, savoring the burn and the warmth that filled her. “I needed that.”

“I could tell, Miss.” He followed her as she walked the length of the railing, one hand trailing along the balustrade. “If ye don’t mind my saying, Mistress Abigail, that was a horrific quarrel.”

“I cannot deny that,” she sighed. “I’ve never felt so angry before.”

“Ye were scared, Mistress Rose being injured like that. It’s almost to be expected, when someone ye love is hurt.” Abigail nodded but stiffly, taking another drink. “And please do not take this in in any adverse way,” she looked at him out of the corner of her eye and seemed to give him permission to continue. “I have never seen the captain so distraught, not in all the years I’ve served.” She scoffed, ceasing her pacing and looking out to sea. 

“He had an odd way of showing it.” 

“I never said he went about it right.” A little smirk graced her fair face. “But ye were not of the waking world late last night. Cecco found ye collapsed on the deck, he rushed ye to the captain. And from what the Italian said he was all a panic over ye.” The sorceress sighed deeply, taking in his words. 

“That does not excuse the fact that this entire situation was his fault. Sure, Rose and I were not averse to helping him catch Peter Pan, the boy was nothing to us and all the cause of grief for him,” she offered the bottle to Smee who took a quick sip of his own. “But...he is obsessed with him. When he is not with us, he is plotting the downfall of a prepubescent boy. He rules his every waking moment, until he is crippled by the sight of that monster in the water while Pan carries off our Rose!” Her hands clutched the railing so tightly that her knuckles turned white. 

“The dear lady has all our sympathies,” he laid one wrinkled hand atop hers. “For those with a strong constitution amongst us, we admire ye.” A curious expression faced him. “Oh aye, putting that rogue Scourie in his place earned a fair weight of respect in the brutes.” A dark laugh fell from her lips, the older man chuckled with her. 

“He deserved it.”

“That he did, he weren’t much liked anyway.” Between them a comfortable silence fell. Together they watched the dolphins playing in the waves, sharing the bottle between them. Neverbirds flew through the air, their lyrical calls filled the air like music. 

“Mr. Smee,” she called to him quietly, “what should I do?”

“Is a hard question to answer, Miss.” Beside her Smee clasped his hands behind his back. “There’s been some drastic changes in the captain, all thanks to ye two ladies.”

“He won’t apologize.”

“Never said he would. But that black heart of his is different, everyone can see it,” he gave her a grateful smile. “I remember him from the years before we all got trapped here. I’ve never seen a speck of true happiness in him until ye two arrived. As much as it galls ye, that first step to fixing this will have to come from ye and Mistress Rose.”

Abigail finished the last of the rum. 

“I’m not going to be the first to speak.”

“Never said ye had to be, Mistress Rose can mediate as she always does.”

“That will most likely end in another fight.”

“Understood, Miss.”

“When it occurs I shall tell you beforehand so you can take cover.”

“Much obliged, Miss.” 

***

James had been reading aloud to Rose for some time throughout the morning. She knew that he was attempting to calm his mind from the earlier ordeal, reading had long been his refuge. But she would be a fool to say that she was not feeling in a similar way. Occasionally he would ask her questions that had nothing to do with the story, his mind must be in many places at once just as hers was.

“How did you and Abigail meet?” That one startled her the most but she answered him none the less.

“At university,” she said. “We had similar interests and attended the same events, religion, theater and the like. For a time we were friends but I always kept my attraction to myself.”

“Did you wait until she took charge and pursued you?”

“Not exactly,” she smiled a little with the memory. “We just seemed to fit, we’ll have to tell you the entire story sometime. Though I’ll never forget the very first time I met her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. All fiery words and cool eyes that gave me shivers. I was actually speechless.” He did not answer, out loud at least. There was something in his face however that told his true thoughts, that he knew the sentiment well. And then he returned to reading, as though no interruption had occurred. More than once, as she listened to his deep voice retell the story of King Arthur, her thoughts had wandered to her Abigail. Her heart went out to both her lovers but she did not know what move to make next. Abigail needed time to be alone, James needed her at his side. She was effectively trapped in the middle. One thing at a time, she kept repeated in her mind, one foot slowly in front of the other.

“Then he looked by him, and was ware of a damosel that came riding full fast as the horse might ride, on a fair palfrey. And when she espied that Lanceor was slain, she made sorrow out of measure, and said, ‘O Balin, two bodies thou hast slain and one heart, and two hearts in one body, and two souls thou hast lost.’ And therewith she took the sword from her love that lay dead, and fell to the ground in a swoon. And when she arose she made great dole out of measure, the which sorrow grieved Balin passingly sore, and he went unto her for to have taken the sword out of her hand, but she held it so fast he might not take it out of her hand unless he should have hurt her, and suddenly she set the pommel to the ground, and rove herself through the body. When Balin espied her deeds, he was passing heavy in his heart, and ashamed that so fair a damosel had destroyed herself for the love of his death.” Beside her, James paused in his narration. She heard him breathe heavily and she looked up from her perch on the pillows. 

“Why did you stop?”

He placed a red ribbon between the pages and gently shut the book. His gaze was far away, staring off into the distance. 

“James?”

“I have read this book since I was a child,” he turned his pale eyes down to the leather bound volume. “Over and over, I must have relived the story over a hundred times. As a boy, I used to command my younger brothers as Arthur and they were knights.” A faded smile pulled at his lips. She knew what had become of his siblings, how after their mother’s sudden death their relationship would only become more strained until finally they might as well have gone to war. But she could not allow him to dwell on sad memories, no good would come from that now. 

“It was always a favorite of mine as well,” she said softly. He set his book down and reached for her hand. 

“And yet, for all the times I read the tales of Camelot and chivalry, the stories like this…” He looked as though he were searching for the correct words, or perhaps the courage to say them. “They passed by like whispers on the wind, always heard but ever out of reach.” 

“How so?” Her brows drew together in confusion. But before he could utter the first syllable of his answer, the cabin door creaked open. Abigail walked in, holding King James to her breast. While there was no outright anger on her face, her expression was wan and guarded. Rose sat up instantly and winced as she pulled the tender muscles at her shoulder. The younger witch saw this, quickly and carefully set down their pet and hurried to her side. 

“Why do you always strain yourself?” she sat down next to her and examined the fading wound.

“You’re worth more than just a little discomfort,” Rose covered her hand with her own. “Are you alright?” For a long moment her lover said nothing, merely clutching her hand tight and biting her full lower lip. 

“I will be,” she said slowly. “But I don’t want to talk about it,” she paused and glanced at the open space on the bed. “I just want lay down, with you, for a little bit in peace.” 

“Of course!” Rose pulled back the blankets and scooted to the center of the massive bed. Her back hit James’ warm body, his hand was hot as he caught her hip and held her steady. Abigail settled into place, curling into Rose’s arms and closing her eyes. “We’ve been reading _Le Mort d’Arthur_ ,” she told her love as she ran her fingers through the sable curls she adored. 

“How far?”

“Book Two, where a lady has died for the loss of her knight and the men of Britain are just beginning to congregate to Arthur,” Rose explained. 

“I hard a little of conversation before I opened the door,” her voice was unapologetic in admitting her spying but it was a trait both her lovers admired in her. “You had just asked James why certain stories escaped his understanding. Don’t let my arrival put a stopper in your talk.” She said this entirely with her eyes lightly closed, her face resting in the crook of her girlfriend’s throat. Rose looked to James over her shoulder, he appeared surprised that she would even want to hear his voice at the moment. But still he nodded his assent.

“So she had,” he acquiesced. Abigail gave no reaction and he assumed that he might continue. “The romance of knights and their ladies, sweet and tragic alike, their heart always eluded me. And I often caught myself wondering, just what power could drive one to make such a sacrifice for another.” A pale hand reached for the book, flipping open the cover and tired blue eyes quickly read the marked passage. 

“Though dramatic, such is the power of love,” Abigail said softly. “Love makes us do things we never thought ourselves capable of. Like how I will not rest until I avenge the harm done to our beloved, it matters not to me who is guilty. I will have vengeance because the woman I love was hurt, it’s that simple.” Silence filled the cabin for a long, ponderous moment. 

“I had never felt emotions so acutely before,” was his quiet reply. “I lived a life of hatred and despair, never thinking myself worthy or even capable of love. And yet, when I saw you, Rose, with the arrow in your shoulder, lying so still on the grass in Abigail’s arms...yes, it was then, when I saw before my very eyes a picture of the very love I had read about all my life...it was then I realized the power of the love you bear for each other. It is the strongest bond I have seen and somehow you share it with me? I...I have been selfish. And, yes, childish.” 

He glanced over at where Abigail lay and found blue eyes looking back at him, listening carefully. 

“Unworthy as I am, all I can do is ask your forgiveness. For I know it is through my obsession that Rose was wounded. And when I saw you hurt and when I saw you, Abigail, caring for her...I realized the depth of my...affection for you both. And it is far greater than I ever dreamed I could feel for anyone. Much as I loathe the thought,” he paused to crack a small smile, “I fear I may have caught... _feelings_ for you.”

“Perish the thought.” Abigail’s face was mostly hidden behind Rose’s body but her tone betrayed the smile around her lips. 

“Aye,” his smile widened, “tis a horrid and awful fate. Curse you, witches, for bewitching me so. And curse me as well. I have not made this easy for you. You are my ladies, and as such you deserve only the best. I am afraid my impeccable good form does not permit this to continue. Creatures such as yourselves deserve the life of luxury. Which is why I will instruct Mister Starkey to set a course away from Neverland.”

“Away from Neverland?” Rose sat up at once and hissed at the pain. Abigail clicked her tongue reprovingly but Rose ignored her, “What do you mean? We’re leaving?”

“At ease, my lady,” he said, using his good hand to ease her back down onto the pillows, “There is a pirate port nearby and I keep a house there. As my ladies, you should feel welcome to keep house there. Provided you forgive me and still wish to be my ladies after this fiasco that I have brought upon us?”

Rose and Abigail glanced at each other and he watched an entire conversation happen in their eyes before Rose looked back at him and nodded with a smile. He looked down at Abigail who was examining her nails. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. 

“My lady sorceress?”

“Just so everyone’s on the same page,” she said carefully, “You admit, sir, that you are selfish and childish and an idiot?”

“Yes.” he ground out.

“And that you have feelings for us?”

“...yes.”

“That you might even, perhaps, love us?”

His eyes twitched and Rose hurried to say, “One thing at a time, love. He doesn’t have to admit that yet. That’s a big step.”

“I’m aware,” Abigail smirked, “I just wanted to see how he’d react to the L word.”

Rose giggled and James sighed. 

Abigail slid across Rose’s body to catch James’ chin in her grip and press a kiss to his mouth. “Forgiven. Not forgotten, but forgiven.”

“So, this house,” Rose began, her eyes lighting with excitement. “Tell us about it.”


	12. Home Is Where The Hook Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
> -Good afternoon, Mister Beaulieu. I hope you are of the mind to make a fortune today.  
> -What a superb turn to my day, it has been too long!  
> -How may I serve you, my most favored of clients?

Mr. Starkey was woken from a sound sleep to plot a course for the isle of St. Erasmus, they were to sail at dawn. Rose was not allowed out of bed, despite the swift healing of her wound. Every time she tried to leave the haven of scarlet silk one of her lovers would swiftly ease her back into the feather mattress. Sometimes greater persuasion was necessary. The tension seeped away between James and Abigail. In no time they were singing at the harpsichord and reading aloud from the prized First Folio. Outside their cabin the crew was ecstatic to be free of Neverland. When their orders were shouted out a cheer rose from the bowels of the ship to the crow’s nest. When the island sank into the horizon a few of the men broke out instruments in celebration. It would take a little more than a week to reach their destination, until then there was enough in the way of blissful domestic chores to keep the witches busy.

“Tell us about this place, dear,” Abigail asked Hook. She was studying a book of Greek dramas, unsurprisingly it was open to _Antigone_.

“Tis a crescent shaped island, with lighthouses at either point. Though they are flanked by a veritable reef of wrecks,” he answered, his eyes never leaving the page of his own book. “Its proper name, Saint Erasmus, always brings out a good laugh from those of us who grew up in the Holy Mother Church.” Abigail snorted, Rose just raised a brow. “But for the rest of the rabble it is known as Smuggler’s Cove.”

“How ominous,” Rose crooned as she folded a shirt from her mountain of pillows. “Do other captains live there?”

“Indeed, five besides myself. I have not taken up my house in some time, the moment my colours come into sight there is sure to be quite the commotion among them. Each has their own manor which overlooks the town, protected by a small range of mountains.”

“Are there places to pillage in the Never Sea?” the younger woman asked.

“There are many such places, each of the captains takes full advantage of them. I just...have been otherwise occupied...to go pirating. But we all have our own businesses on St. Erasmus, all connected to the other worlds and their trade.”

“You have a business, a legitimate business?” the elder lady perked up. “In what?”

“Each of the wealthiest captains, those who wrestled control from the chaotic town, took a monopoly on a certain trade. Sometimes the business is chosen for personal preference, sometimes necessity. Carpentry, money lending and the pleasure trade are just naming a few. I have the artisans, all the fine craftsmen and jewelers.” Abigail looked to the ornate mantle piece clock, which never ticked, that stood on a heavy shelf by the books.

“Like clock making?”

James glared at her...then nodded. She barely stopped herself from bursting out laughing, settling herself for a sarcastic, one-word answer.

“Perfect.”

He returned to his book.

Rose looked over the pile of laundry before her. It had tripled over the last few weeks, to no one’s surprise. She and Abigail had no clothes of their own, besides the dresses they arrived in and by now those had taken quite the beating. Sharing one man’s wardrobe between himself and two women was not exactly working out well. Not to mention the sheer amount of mending being done lately. Poor Mr. Smee, the only other person on board besides the witches with a sense of which end of the needle to use, was becoming overwhelmed. James had a tendency to get caught up in the heat of the moment and clothing had turned into collateral damage.

“We need new clothes.”

From across the room the captain looked up from his tome of English history. She had a theory that his sudden interest in the topic stemmed from wanting to be reminded of something older than him.

“You barely wear any as it is.”

Abigail snorted her tea.

“And whose fault is that?” the younger witch sputtered. James grinned lecherously.

“Do you expect regret on my part?”

She threw a sugar cube at him.

“Anyway, before we begin a food fight,” Rose picked up King James as she walked towards her lovers. “Abigail and I are in desperate need of our own wardrobes. We cannot keep pilfering yours.”

“I find you rather fetching in my clothes,” he casually flipped a page.

“Well unless you want us to turn your pretty silk sheets into chitons you might want to consider a shopping trip,” Abigail looked pointedly to the bed. “Good thing we both look so fetching in scarlet.” James turned a little pale, they smirked.

“I know just the place.”

***

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur Beaulieu. J'espère que vous êtes de l'esprit pour faire fortune aujourd'hui._ ”

Hook swept into the elegant store, barely acknowledging the valets who opened the heavy double doors and took his hat. One either side of him Rose and Abigail stood, looking around with curiosity at the shelves bursting with fabrics, trims, buttons and other innumerable products. While the footmen bowed and scraped at the sight of the Hook, their powered faces all but sneered at the sight of the women in their borrowed clothes. They kept a wide berth.

In the center of the spacious room stood a man ordering the scrambling workers like a conductor with his orchestra. His white wig was dressed in perfect curls, his chartreuse suit shone with what must have been yards of silver embroidery. When he turned, a pale face accented in rouge lit up like a beacon.

“ _Capitaine Crochet!_ ” The man jangled as he moved, his waistcoat laden with delicate golden tailor’s tools hung from tiny chains. “ _Quel superbe tour de ma journée, il a été trop long!_ ” His voice was heavy with an antique French accent. He was tall and long of limb, but graceful as a swan as he made an elaborate bow complete with waving lace handkerchief. “ _Comment puis-je vous servir, mon plus favorisé des clients?_ ”

“A change to the common tongue will be a good beginning,” the captain nodded in assent. All through this the witches stood, watched and listened. Though neither of had a mastery of French, it was easy to ascertain the gist of what was happening.

“But of course, _Capitaine_ ,” he finally noticed that his customer had not arrived alone. Whereas his employees had regarded them with disdain, the Frenchman hid any true first impressions behind a practiced mask of cordiality. “In all your years of patronage to my humble establishment never have you brought _une femme_. And now you bring two! The town will be beside itself in gossip.”

“Which will only be expounded upon by my request to you, old friend.” The Frenchman’s eye’s lit up like fireworks. Hook was playing upon his obvious love of wagging tongues.

“Oh do tell me how. Soul of discretion that I am, your secret is safe with me.” From a pocket in his coat he produced a painted fan and fluttered it.

“Do allow me to introduce to you to my ladies,” he motioned to them with hand and hook. “Miss Abigail Ó Rinn-Sheehy and Miss Rose Belchiere,” they each did their best to curtsy in breeches and still retain some semblance of decorum.

“Your ladies? My, my, such a tale that must be!” The fan fluttered faster.

“My darlings, may I present the finest tailor outside of Paris itself, Monsieur Guilbert Emile Ives Beaulieu.”

“ _Enchanté mademoiselles._ ” He kissed each of their hands, leaving behind a red impression of his lips but they said nothing of it.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Abigail said graciously.

“We have heard much of you,” Rose smiled pleasantly.

“Oh I do hope it was all bad,” he chuckled. “I cannot have my reputation going far and wide or else I would be overwhelmed with such labor to appease everyone.” Beaulieu waved a hand to one of his fops who readied a table in the far back corner of the room, setting it with four champagne flutes and a decanter of golden bubbly. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” their host lead them all to take a seat on plush chairs. “And now you owe me some little explanation why you have arrived out of the clear blue sky with such lovely company in tow. Not to mention how that relates to my making a fortune today, as you put it.”

“I mean to take up Black Barony for a time,” Hook stated as the servant poured the champagne. “The other Lords are at home as well, I intend to introduce my ladies to them at O’Malley’s yearly gathering. But life on a ship isn’t the most luxurious of states and my dear ones are without the proper wardrobes for life at the manor.” If Rose and Abigail had to put a modern term to the look on the tailor’s face, he had to be seeing only dollar signs in place of his guests right now.

“And what are the lovely ladies in need of?”

“Oh, everything.”

“ _Mon dieu._ ”

“Price is no object either, as well you know,” Hook nonchalantly sipped his drink as his women gaped at him.

“Jean-Claude!” Beaulieu cried out and a young man in a sky blue suit appeared at his side. “Fetch the sample books for ladies garments, everything from chemises to pelisses. Go!” He pushed a four tiered tray stacked high with pastries towards them and snapped his fingers. Another youth dressed in lavender brought a writing desk already prepared with paper, quill and ink. “Now tell me, _ma chere mademoiselles_ , what colours do you prefer?”

***

A fine carriage had been ordered to take the captain and his lovely company to his house. It was a somewhat long drive, the manor house was situated high above the town as were the other five mansions. Their towers and peaked roofs could be seen above the copse of trees that separated the well to do homes from the rest of the population. James had sent word to his head housekeeper the day before they had arrived at port via means of carrier bird. A small army of servants had kept the house in order during the master’s long absence, but there would be much work to be done to make the hollow halls a home again. As they descended the gangplank many of the crew sported excited grins and told raunchy jokes in anticipation of their time ashore.

“I couldn’t help but hear a few of the men repeatedly mention something as we left the ship,” Rose said, looking out of the carriage at the buildings as they passed. King James II was curled up in a blanket lined basket next to her, the witches had refused to leave the ship without him.

“And what was that, my dear?”

“They were wondering if you were still going to visit ‘Sword and Sheath’ now that Abigail and I were around.”

James turned white at first and then a little green.

“Something wrong?” Abigail cocked her head to the side. She sat next to him in the carriage, gallantly insisting that the cat be given a place of honour at Rose’s side.

“The Sword and Sheath is an...establishment...which I have been known to patronize.” His words were clipped and chosen carefully.

“And what sort of establishment is this?” Rose asked cautiously.

“None that ladies need be bothered with.”

Abigail opened her mouth to say something but only a little scream came out as the carriage jerked hard and tilted off to the side. “What the hell was that?” They could hear scrambling on the roof as the footmen moved about. The door was opened and the coachman peeped in looking rather frazzled.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” he apologized to the captain. “The wheel has slipped and needs to be resituated. If you would please disembark we have men already rushing to fix it.”

“How in blazes did it break?” Hook demanded as he hopped out. He offered his hand to Rose, assisting her down to the street, careful not to let her touch any filth scattered there. A young man, a stranger, leapt forward to take Abigail’s arm to help her down as she cradled the basket with King James II in her arms. He was tall and lean, blue eyes sparkling up at her from under a messy mop of blond hair. She hesitantly squinted at the young man who grinned up at her through the slight smears of grime on his face, but she permitted him to help her down. Abigail held the kitten basket in her arms, drawing the blankets over the feline so he couldn’t see the big world around him.

“Loose cobblestone it would seem, Captain.” The blond man spoke with a lilting Irish accent and Abigail looked at him from the corner of her eyes, his accent familiar to the Irishwoman.

“And who are you?” James asked harshly, noticing the blond man and the way he so comfortably stood close by Abigail’s side.

“Strand, sir,” the Irishman said, holding out his hand, “Chase Strand.”

Hook narrowed his eyes at the brash youth and ignored the hand.

“Move along, Mister Strand. You have offered your opinion and your help to my lady, you can move along now.”

“I could also help reset the wheel, Captain,” the Irishman flashed a cheeky grin, “I think you’ll find that I am rather good with my hands.”

James closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Come, my dears, we can await on the side of the street until this fiasco is dealt with.” They had barely made it to the shade of the awnings over the thoroughfare when their lover’s face again turned a sickening shade.

“Are you feeling alright?” Rose touched her hand to his cheek, trying to check for fever. Abigail noticed his pale eyes were trained ahead of them, to the walkway across from where their carriage was being repaired. He quickly looked anywhere else but she was already turning to investigate.

“Well,” she smirked. Her girlfriend leaned over to look questioningly at her. Hook was silent. “I think we have our answer about the Sword and Sheath.” She pointed across the street, Rose followed her accusing finger and felt her jaw drop open.

“Is that…?” hazel eyes widened.

“A brothel,” the blond Chase supplied helpfully where he was toiling with the rest of the men to fix the carriage wheel.

“Dearest James,” blue eyes narrowed and sparked with ice. “You weren’t thinking of visiting that place were you?”

“In Lucifer’s name no!”

A magnificent building in the Italian Renaissance style took up half a block along the street. Near the large double doors of the main entry hung a sign bearing a rapier half buried in its scabbard. Two stories tall, the ground floor was lined with a gallery of Roman arches where ladies of the night were leaning against them, beckoning men out of the sun and into the shade of the gallery and the comfort of their arms. The rosy walls of the brothel contrasted with the dark wood of the open shutters, women leaning out of them with perfumed handkerchiefs and ample bosoms. Flower boxes decorated the windows, painted vines wrapped around the arches, and colourful mosaic tiles around the doors graced the elegant facade. And those mosaics, the painted figures entwined in the vines, and the women themselves all displayed the joys to be found within in graphic detail. Several of the working ladies, all sinfully gorgeous and dressed in lovely, if not extremely revealing gowns, noticed them. More appropriate, they noticed Hook.

“You have quite the collection of admirers,” Rose’s voice turned steely and yet brittle.

“All in the past,” he said quickly, trying to ignore the coos and blown kisses from the bevy of beautiful women.

“They don’t seem to know that,” Abigail watched as more than a few of the courtesans actually turned away customers at the sight of the captain.

“Is that damned wheel fixed yet?” he bellowed to the footmen. There was a chorus of negative answers and the men doubled their speed at his answering glare.

“Nervous that we know about your old haunt?” Abigail slipped a hand into the blankets of the cat’s basket to keep King James nestled within when he tried to escape.

“Like I said, it is not a place for ladies to pay mind to.”

A slight commotion pulled their attention to the heavy cherry wood doors of the building. The scent of incense and perfume caught the breeze as the portal opened and a tall woman swept out. She was a striking figure, resplendent in a low cut gown of white satin and gold lace. Thick, wavy hair of red-gold streaked with silver was piled atop her head in the style of the Belle Epoque. A choker and necklace of pearls and yellow topaz hung on her slender white throat. Red lips, dark eyes and a mocking smirk gave her heart shaped face a mischievous hint to her over riding grandeur. Abigail watched in curious silence as she boldly crossed the street. Rose wrapped her arms around herself and patiently awaited her arrival. James somehow managed to look blessedly relieved yet distinctly cautious at the same time.

The woman finally reached them across the avenue and stood before him, her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes roved over the captain’s body, not with the heat of lust but with cool analysis.

“You’ve lost a hand.”

Abigail and Rose gaped at the brazen way she acknowledged his hook. They were even more surprised when the captain responded with a low laugh.

“Henrietta,” he said with a wry smile, “and here I had been praying you had lost your sight.”

“You’ve been gone a while, James Eliott,” the woman gave her own smokey laugh, her smooth contralto voice matching her handsome face. “But not so long as that.”

They stood, looking at each other for a long moment, then matching smiles spread across their faces. He took her hand, bowing over it and kissing the skin which barely showed the signs of age. She faked a coquettish titter and leaned in to kiss his cheeks. Abigail and Rose were completely nonplussed. The Madame glanced to the side where the Captain’s men were toiling at the broken carriage.

“So now it takes a broken carriage wheel to bring you to my door? Shame on you, James Hook, treating your friends so ill!” Her voice was enticing even as she was scolding him. “First you lose a hand, then a wheel. Careful you don’t lose anything else.” Her dark eyes passed meaningfully over to the sorceresses standing together and they gaped at the brazen way this woman spoke to him. “And who do we have here?”

“Do forgive my poor manners,” James put a hand or hook behind his ladies’ back and pressed them forward a step. “Dear ones, this is Henrietta Topaz, an old friend of mine. Hattie, allow me to introduce Abigail Ó Rinn-Sheehy and Rose Belchiere,” he looked fondly down upon each of them, “my ladies.” Henrietta raised an elegant brow as she appraised the three of them.

“You mean mistresses.” Hook’s face went stone blank, his eyes narrowed and a tight scowl marred his handsome face. He might have used the term himself, but always in an affectionate manner...and certainly not with the same implication Henrietta used.

“Madame, I would ask you not assume such things,” his words were clipped and precise. Abigail and Rose shared a befuddled look.

“Oh look at this,” the redhead chuckled and poked him square in the chest with a perfectly manicured nail. “You know well that I was but teasing you and all the sudden you’re full of offense. You’ve gone and turned into quite the jealous Romeo, it’s a sight rarer than a unicorn; Jas. Hook acting the romantic hero. What did you two do to the poor man?”

“Enchanted him,” Abigail answered.

James looked at her with no small amount of shock.

“And now he’s utterly besotted,” Rose added.

“The Hook bewitched,” Henrietta said musingly, casting a glance at the Captain before she turned to take Rose’s hands in hers, “And by such lovely creatures, too. Well done, dear ladies, I applaud you. Which one are you, dear?”

“Rose, my lady,” Rose said with a curtsy. The woman laughed.

“So polite! Let me look at you.” Henrietta examined the auburn witch, using her grip on her hands to guide Rose into a slow pirouette. “Yes, you are the French one. I can see it in your bearing. There is something delicate about you, dainty and proper but with steel underneath. Like a bouquet of steel-sculpted roses.” She pressed a kiss to Rose’s cheek and turned away, leaving Rose flustered and pink.

“And you,” Henrietta took Abigail’s chin in her hand, “the Irish beauty. Yes, the wildness of your curls matches the wildness of your spirit. Fair of face you are and with a powerful presence, too. People look at you, love. And yet…” she gripped Abigail’s chin harder and peered closer into her pale eyes. “There is something about you...a spark of something inhuman deep in your soul. You…”

She reached to draw something from her pocket, an iron nail, and Abigail instinctively flinched away. Henrietta took her hand and Rose’s hand, bending over them to look at the lines there. The witches looked at each other. They knew what the lines on palms could tell. And when Henrietta looked up at them, they knew that the Madame could see more about them than they liked.

A smile lit her face, “ _Streghe_."

***

The Madame poured the rosehip tea from her china teapot, not ten minutes from their conversation in the avenue, and passed it across the table to Abigail and Rose. James sat in an armchair in the corner of the Madame’s private rooms, still prickly from the way Henrietta had addressed his women and at the attention the prostitutes had given him as the Madame had ushered them into the brothel and up to her private chambers.

“It is much better to pass time with a friend while your carriage is being repaired than stand in the avenue alone.” She stirred sugar into her own tea and smiled warmly at the women sitting across from her.

“How long have you known each other?” Rose asked as she took a cautious sip.

“An eternity,” Henrietta laughed. “Though the amputation is new to me,” she turned her dark eyes to the seething man in the corner. “How did that come about?” Abigail and Rose both wore a worried look.

“If I told you it would be the end of my reputation and a ceaseless source of amusement for you,” he said in a disturbingly polite tone. “So do forgive me if I deign to keep it to myself.”

“He used to fight with a hook, you know,” the Madame continued. “A rapier in one hand, a wicked double edged scythe in the other. Hence the moniker, well earned if you ask anyone on the island. I would wager most everyone knows the Hook has returned and a fair share are quaking in their boots even now. Have either of you experienced a battle yet?” James gripped the arm of his chair, Rose touched her shoulder but stared ahead as though she knew not what she was doing.

“One,” Abigail said. “We did not lose any on our side, thank goodness.”

“On your side,” the Madame looked over her teacup to the dark-haired woman.

Abigail shrugged, “I am not above shedding blood.”

“I see why he likes you,” Henriette smiled warmly. “And why you have captivated him, dear Rose. One would be blind if they did not see how smitten he is with you. I can almost guarantee you make his life an adventure. And that’s even without your powers as witches.”

“Yes, about that,” Rose set her teacup down. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know we were witches?”

“Dear child,” the older woman said, refilling her own cup, “My mother was a _strega_. She was poor, yes, a peasant, yes, but still a _strega_. She knew all the magical herbs and how to use them, she knew how to tie the wind into knots and keep it for her use, she knew how to read the cards, she knew all sorts of things. I was surrounded by magic all of my girlhood and, while I do not have the talent for it that my mother did or that you two ladies do, I know enough to protect my girls and do some simple charms now and again. I have my girls put silver coins in their shoes to attract more money, I make tea from roses to encourage romance-” At this, the two witches very slowly and politely set their cups down. The Madame continued, “I read the cards under each full moon to foretell how the next month will be for business. And I keep this,” She pulled a strand of knots from her pocket, “to send favourable winds to my sailor friends.”

“You never told me any of this,” James said accusingly. She waved him away.

“A woman is entitled to her secrets,” she said haughtily. Returning her attention to the women sitting across from her, she smiled warmly at them. “You two are something special, for far more than your heaven-sent beauty. Was it magic that trapped James in the end?” Both of the younger women began to take offense, lips parted to refute such a base allegation but just as quickly they froze. The Madame was teasing again.

“That would have made things far too easy,” the dark haired witch smiled and the auburn one nodded sagely.

“Am I not to be given credit for seducing either of you?” Hook questioned.

“The good captain does have a point,” Hattie said slyly as she took a biscuit from the crystal tray. “He has quite the reputation with the fairer sex. Not once can I recall a visit where he chose the same girl two nights in a row. Did you not notice as we toured the building?” Oh had they noticed. Noticed and called upon every ounce of their self control not to throttle the next harlot who didn’t know how to keep her hands, or bosom, to herself. It would be bad form to cause damage to Henrietta’s business on the first day of their acquaintance. Silent decision between the lovers was that should it happen again, they were entitled to defend their honor.

“Actually we haven’t had much time to talk about James’ life on the Never Sea since we arrived,” Rose primly folded her hands in her lap. “I’m a historian myself, being a witch doesn’t exactly pay the bills back home, and I happen to know a lot about him from his days on the Mainland Do tell us what he was like before we arrived.”

“Was he a regular Casanova?” Abigail leaned forward, chin resting on her palm.

“Not at first,” Hattie grinned at her old friend. James pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Must you tell this sorry story? I find I don’t like stories much anymore.”

“The very first night he came to my humble establishment,” the witches looked around at the fine china and original 16th century wall hangings, “I would wager that Captain Hook had not allowed himself the comfort of a woman for some time.”

“When one is outrunning His Majesty’s Royal Navy there is not much time for leisure,” he growled. Henrietta ignored him.

“But it wasn’t the act itself that he utterly mucked up,” she took a sip of tea with a sinister smile. “At least as far as I know he didn’t. It was the flirting which scared him as rightly as a sinner in church. One lascivious word from the girl and he’d spilled his drink right down the front of her peony pink dress. The stain never did come out.”

“Hattie, you make it sound as though I was a blundering novice!”

“I never said that.”

“You do not have to! The implication was clear!”

“Not on that occasion! Now the incident with the rope and the closet-”

The door swung open, a man in a scarlet and gold uniform walked in.

“Sir, the carriage is ready at your discretion.”

James stood instantly.

“Come my darlings, it’s high time we were off. No need to waste anymore of Madame Topaz’s valuable time.”

The Madame got to her feet and kissed each of the women of their cheeks, whispering, “Come visit me anytime, dear ones. I am quite delighted to have such powerful _streghe_ in town.” She winked at them and they laughed as they followed James out of the brothel.

***

Whatever the rope and closet incident might have been, Hook would not permit the topic of his past patronage to the Sword and Sheath to be brought up again. As they left, his ladies could not help but notice the glares of the women who worked there. Beauties from every corner of the globe, bedecked in gowns and jewels worth more than the house Rose and Abigail used to rent. And each and every one of them looked ready to scratch their eyes out. The witches reveled in it. Abigail even blew one a kiss.

The carriage, it’s wheel mended, stood ready outside the brothel and who was there to open the door with a flourish, but Chase Strand. He bowed cheekily to the ladies as he helped them up. Hook brushed past him without a word, pulling the door sharply shut behind him. Unbeknownst to the ladies and the pirate, the blond Irishman swung up behind the carriage, perched on top of the trunk strapped down at the rear. Pulling a piece of wood from his pocket, he continued whittling himself a flute.

As they rode to the estate, James told them about his house which he had dubbed Black Barony.

“I think I like Hook’s Nook better,” Abigail said and Rose nodded.

“Yes, that has a much nicer ring to it."

“I am not renaming my manor because you two like a silly rhyme.”

“Spoilsport.”

The tree line artfully hid the the way to the homes of the elite from prying eyes. It crossed the width of the island and was guarded very quarter mile by a pair of watchman armed to the teeth. Behind the tall cyprus was a much finer, paved road which lead up to a gated entrance of heavy, intricate, wrought iron.

James refused to allow them to hang out of the carriage to see the house; he claimed it would be unseemly of his ladies and surely the other captains had spies watching. They sat petulantly, waiting. Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop and James descended, offering his hand to his ladies to help them from the carriage. Rose stepped down first, then Abigail, and they gaped at the magnificent manor house that stood before them. Three storeys of grey stone rose into the blue sky, framed with mountains and trees. The panes of glass in the tall windows caught the sun and flashed with light. The gravel gave way to green grass of the lawn leading up to the front double doors of the house, flanked by nymphs carved from marble. Two square towers stood at the front corners of the house and the women knew enough about classic manor architecture to know that it was likely two more square towers stood at the back corners as well.

“The gardens are around to the right,” James said, “Though I doubt they are in any fit condition for strolling."

Now that they looked, there was clear evidence of decay and disrepair. The ivy clung haphazardly to the stone, the windows were grimy, and the paint on the door was chipped. The nymph statues were fuzzy with moss and discoloration. While sound and sturdy, the manor had not been lived in for some time. The front doors suddenly burst open and a line of people rushed out, all were dressed in the garb of servants. All looked nervous as they lined up before the main entrance, men on the right and women on the left. As one they bowed or curtsied when Hook began walking up the path.

“A little more punctuality next time,” he scolded them. To their credit, none of the staff looked or insinuated that they were thinking of their employer’s missing hand. “I may have been gone for a venture which took overly long but that is no excuse for tardiness.” Rose and Abigail were still taking in the overwhelming sight when he turned before the grand double doors.

“Welcome, my ladies,” he said, “To my home. And now yours.”

***

Work to refurbish the manor began immediately. Amidst all the rush to clean, paint, scrub and dust every square inch, the witches settled into their new house. The first deliveries from Beaulieu came two days later in late morning. Silk shifts and stockings, satin shoes, and coquettish hats all arrived in bright pastel boxes. Soft parcels wrapped in delicate tissue revealed day dresses, jackets, gloves and petticoats of every color imaginable. Abigail and Rose tore into their presents like children at Yuletide. There was no need to wonder which garments belonged to who, the tailor had taken their personal tastes into great consideration. Hook had already hired a bevy of young maids to attend his ladies, they were put to work quickly as both women were eager to try on each and every article in their new wardrobes. He left them to their joy, meeting with his steward over the businesses he had too long neglected. After choosing a dress of rich indigo for the day, Abigail went off to further investigate the wine cellar as she had been itching to do since first setting eyes upon the massive collection.

Rose walked through the garden, one hand holding high her emerald damask skirt, the other trailing through the dead hedges. No one had tended the grounds in years, that much was obvious. While the living chambers of the house was kept clean and tidy at the least, all the furnishings were still covered with white sheets when they had arrived, the grounds were an entirely different story. James admitted to not hiring a gardener since first he took up residence. He knew nothing of plants and their care, his eyes were forever turned towards the horizon and the sapphire waves that called to him like a siren’s song. Her new shoes, delicate green vines embroidered upon cream satin, crunched on the old gravel paths. High stone walls encased the garden, even taller trees kept the sun from beating down on the flower beds. But nothing grew here anymore, the skeletal branches and black stalks were a testament to the years of neglect. She could see in her mind how the land must have looked under a more caring hand, in its heyday.

Deep past the tall hedges, which were recognized as half a maze now that she studied the paths they followed, she came to a wide circle.

“Center of the Labyrinth,” she smiled a little. The universe must have felt in a jesting mood, because at the middle of the grass and gravel stood a fountain shaped like a castle. Though true to the form of its owner, the great statue was comprised of reefs and waves, a castle fit for the bottom of the sea. Spires of coral jutted into the air, creating towers from which dozens of fish swam in and out. Leaping dolphins carried conch shell bearing nymphs. Tritons with their thrice pronged spears rose from the marble in a parade worthy of Poseidon. It was magnificent and sad. She sat on the edge, looking down into the dry basin. Only withered leaves filled it now. Remnants of water lilies peaked through the debris, their thorny stalks giving them away. The wind pulled at her hair, a few stray locks escaping the elegant up-do her maid had styled for her. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the warm breeze, she loved the wind.

As she sat there, surrounded by the ravages of time, she listened to her old friend as a zephyr blew leaves up around her. She wished the grass were green and soft so that she might run barefoot through the grounds.

The wind let loose a stronger gust, she braced herself with one hand on the marble lest she tumble into the fountain. Her hazel eyes opened, slowly she regained her bearings. Falling over while still in her stays and full skirts would not be so pleasant. And that was when she noticed it, the first speck of color.

Carefully, she stood, hands bunched in her petticoats. The few steps brought her to a scrap of what must have once been a flower bed. Weeds long dead and the remnants of many a year of fallen leaves covered the stone border. Rose set down on her knees, uncaring how the dank and dirty ground would stain her expensive dress, she could wash it later. Gently she pried away the refuse, her white hands became dotted with little drops of scarlet blood from the thorns. And then she found it, a flat stalk of bright green, a tiny bud of purple at the top.

“Hello, little iris,” she grinned. “Hardy aren’t you?” Bit by bit she cleaned the ground surrounding the solitary plant. Just beneath the dull surface of dirt she found rich, black soil. Her hands grew dark as she worked, the cuts stinging only slightly.

The wind began to pick up. Rose noticed but did not slow her work. Something was riding in the air, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. It felt strong, running through her veins and swirling around her. When the iris was freed from the tangle of thorns and choking weeds, she sat back to admire the sight.

“I shall have to come back with water for you,” she looked regretfully at the dry fountain. As she reached out to touch the impossibly soft petals, a breeze blew at her back, down her arm until the iris shuddered with it. The moment her fingers touched the bud, she was circled in the leaves she only just removed, she covered her eyes to protect them but through her fingers she caught a glimpse of her magic sparking red. As soon at the small tornado began, it ceased. Rose looked down at the flowerbed in shock.

Where there had been a short stalk and bud now stood a tall plant with a full blossom. She could smell the sweet scent it gave off, so strong and healthy.

“What on earth?” she touched the draping violet petals. Rose thought she might have been losing her mind, because she could have sworn that the flower actually leaned into her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something. Around the circle which contained the castle fountain were beds exactly like this one, all overgrown and dismal. But again she saw a flash of color, where there had been none before. She cautiously approached it. This time instead of a purple iris, she found a yellow tulip.

“Where…? How…?” she knelt again and carefully examined the budding flower. Just as before, the single plant was being strangled in weeds that bit at her hands and forearms as she ripped them up. But this time she watched as her blood mixed with the soil, shining with a single spark of her magic. She placed her left hand palm down on the ground and simply felt. There was life under the surface, dormant and barely clinging to its meager existence, but it was there. Startled that she could even tell this, she pulled her hand back and stared in shock at the flower before her. What should she do? Try the same as the last plant? She looked down at her arms, bared by her three quarter sleeves, and the tiny dots of drying blood. All magic had a price, was this what was needed to bring the garden back to life? It was a small price to pay, a few drops of blood. Slowly she reached out to touch the tulip and watched in awe as it grew to full height and bloomed.

The wind picked up again, warm and almost embracing her.

So she set to work.

Over and over she delved into the earth, finding life emerging from death. It felt euphoric in a way, acting in tandem with the natural cycle of birth and rebirth. The wind guided her, pulling her from one bed to the next. Her hair fell from its pins, flying around her like a cape and dotted with leaves. When the fountain circle was complete, the place was bright with color. Near the edge, directly across from the entrance, stood the lever which lead to the fountain. Rose knelt next to it, both hands placed flat on the ground. She searched, deep within the soil, her red magic leaching through until she felt the pipe far below her. It was choked with dead roots. Her forehead was slick with perspiration, her knuckles white with strain. She felt the roots begin to move, slithering like great snakes. Her whole body was shaking by the time they burst from the ground, spraying her with soil and drawing blood from her cheeks where they scratched her. Once out of the ground they shriveled and turned to dust at her touch, returned to the earth from whence they came. Her feet were unsteady and she kicked off her pretty shoes, unfastened her garters and tossed aside her silk stockings.

When her hand grasped the lever she felt giddy. With a determined grip she threw it, a rumbling sound came from below. It began as a sputter, a splash of brown water from a conch shell. But then the flow began in earnest, clear rivers flowing from coral towers and dolphin’s beaks, filling the moat around the castle. She laughed with glee and ran forward, dipping her hand into the cool water. White lilies burst from the waves.

Rose ran through the rest of the garden. Her fingers trailed behind her in the hedges which burst into bright green leaves behind her. She had never felt so exhilarated, so strong. The light of her magic lit the pathways like fireworks, she danced and laughed as it fell around her, as the nature around her was exploding to life. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such power, such beauty. Her laughter rang like bells in the wind, she was so happy as she danced and played with the fresh petals flying through the air. She wanted to sing but couldn’t think of a song that fit the spectacle so she simply thought of one she loved, one that spoke of running away and letting go.

“ _Sing me a song of a lass that is gone, Say, could that lass be I? Merry of soul she sailed on a day, Over the sea to Skye_ ,” the trees began to flower as she passed. “ _Mull was astem, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow: Glory of youth glowed in her soul: Where is that glory now?_ ” She blew a breeze that carried the pale pink petals to the house. “ _Sing me a song of the lass that is gone, Say, could that lass be I? Merry of soul she sailed on a day, Over the sea to Skye._ ”

Statues once overgrown were gleaming white in the sun, the ivy returning to its arbors.

“ _Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone, Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lass that's gone. Sing me a song of the lass that is gone, Say, could that lass be I? Merry of soul she sailed on a day, Over the sea to Skye._ ”

More fountains, smaller ones of pretty maids with fishes tails or gaping faces with beards of seaweed were flowing like waterfalls. “ _Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone._ ”

She had run through the whole of the garden, the gates back to the house were once again in sight. At her feet new grass sprouted forth, the edges of the path home turning bright with asters and daisies as she lifted her arms as though conducting them. “ _Sing me a song of the lass that is gone, Say, could that lass be I? Merry of soul she sailed on a day, Over the sea to Skye…._ "

***

“What in blazes happened to you, darling?” James stood from his seat where he was reading a pile of newly arrived letters, his dual cigar holder still smoking as it clattered to the table. Rose entered the Gold Drawing Room covered in dirt and blood, her long hair filled with leaves and twigs and her shoes were missing.

“I ran through the garden,” her face was bright with a smile though her breathing was labored. Abigail left her place at the window, setting aside her book and hurrying to her lover’s side in a flash of blue silk.

“You’re hurt!” she gently held out her arms to examine the many tiny cuts that still seeped dots of scarlet.

“It only stings a little,” she reassured her. “Really, I’m fine. But I have something to show you both.”

“In the garden?” he asked cautiously once he came to her side.

Rose nodded and lead them quickly to the veranda. The sun blinded them for but a moment before they could see clearly again. James’ face was one of pure shock, Abigail’s a growing look of pride.

“Did you do this?” Abigail’s soft hands entwined with hers and again Rose nodded. “It’s so beautiful. How did you do it?”

“The plants and the wind, they almost spoke to me. Told me what they needed.”

“And they needed your blood did they?” The captain had taken a quick glance to the vibrant foliage but quickly turned his attention to the many cuts still dripping blood down her arms. “These need to be cleaned, love, you know better than to let such things go.” But nothing seemed able to bring down her mood, and she only shrugged with a grin.

“I wanted to tell you first, really they’re nothing I cannot handle.” A few drops of scarlet hit the patio between them. Abigail raised a brow and took an appraising look at her wounds.

“Your work is marvelous, sweetheart, but you’ve gone and neglected yourself in the process. Let’s get you cleaned up and bandaged, then we can take a stroll in your garden.”

***

Wakefulness came slowly, her consciousness somewhere between dreams and the dawn. Suddenly a warmth spread through her, jolting up her body once, twice, drawing a breathy sigh from her. At first she knew only the warm silk of the sheets against her skin. The familiar weight of arms around her, about her waist, winding round her hips, tightened. The heat came again, this time a low moan passed her lips. Hands, three of them, ran over her body. Her eyes had barely begun to open, the early morning light blinding her, when she felt her thighs pulled even further apart. She had only just noticed her legs had been spread at all when a spike of pleasure sent her spine arching.

“Good morning, my flower,” a sultry voice whispered in her ear. Abigail was lying at her side, gently nipping at her throat.

Rose whimpered in response, still pulling herself from the grip of sleep. Another little bite and she was shivering in her arms. One of the hands at her waist trailed up her belly, drawing idly across her skin until cupping her breast. She pressed closer, eager for her touch and Abigail chuckled.

“So needy, isn’t she?”

A long, lingering stroke of the tongue between her legs brought her fully into the waking world. Her cry was equal parts joy and surprise, one hand clutching tight to the haphazardly strewn blankets, the other reaching down to thread through a head of tangled curls. 

“Even in her sleep, it would seem,” the voice was rough, laced with barely restrained passion that sent shivers down her spine. 

She looked down, only to be caught by eyes blue as forget-me-nots and become lost to his gaze almost instantly. James pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, oh so gently, before sinking his teeth into her tender flesh. Her sounds of delight brought a savage grin to both her lover’s faces. It then that she realized they had her pinned to the bed, as well as between them, keeping her well and truly trapped. She quivered in their embrace, growing hot all over again though this time with anticipation. 

“What do you plan to do about that?” she finally found her words. The gleam in their icy eyes was enough to curl her toes. Ah, so this had been planned ahead of time, the conspiratorial look they shared said as much. 

“You know we can’t just tell you,” Abigail pinched her nipple in reprimand. Rose hissed and bit her lip.

“Evil things,” she wriggled, testing how securely they held her. It was not lightly, almost as soon as she began to move, their grip tightened. She was held fast, there would be no escape any time soon, not that escape was even on her mind.

“A sound observation,” James murmured against her hip. “But that does nothing to alter your situation.” Despite his hook and harness not gracing his arm, he was still far stronger than she. Rose licked her lips.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Good girl,” the look he gave her was positively sinful. 

“Am I really?” Leaning into Abigail’s kiss, parting her thighs for him, Rose laid herself open to them. It was one of her very favorite games, to be caught between her lovers, to play to their dominant streaks.

“Oh no, not at all,” Abigail smiled, she looked like a wolf with a feast laid out before her. “You are anything but good. Just look at you, spread out so wantonly…”

“She is a brazen little thing,” Hook slowly crawled up her body, ever the predator. She watched as he stalked above her, how the muscles in his strong arms moved when he was braced over her. With his dark curls and bright eyes, he looked like a great cat on the prowl. And she was the prey. 

“I am many things,” she said cheekily, “but little is not one of them.” Provoking them was never very wise, but if a little prodding brought the animal in them to the surface, then she would do so gladly. 

“Are you belittling yourself in front of us?” Her lady looked down at her, the hand that had been gently palming her breast suddenly squeezing harshly. 

“Merely stating a fact,” she gasped. Pain and pleasure were one and the same in their bed, all three of them reveled in the delicious dichotomy.

“You did not answer the question,” their captain ran his long, calloused fingers across her throat, his hand closing ever so slightly around it. 

“Maybe I did, a little.”

“Never do that again,” Abigail scolded. Two pairs of blue eyes stared down at her, two pairs of azure fire that set her own body a flame in desire. Oh, how she wanted them.

“She shouldn’t be rewarded for insulting our treasure,” James turned to their lover. “It would only encourage her ill behaviour more.”

“I fully agree!”

Rose watched with dismay as they left her bereft and wanting. Their hands left her body, their bodies moved far from her and her skin chilled in their absence. Instead they turned their attention to each other, James pulling Abigail roughly to him, their lips meeting in hungry, almost ferocious, kisses. Her eyes followed the path pale hands took down his bare torso, nails leaving bright red trails in their wake. Abigail’s head fell back, her dark curls tumbling down her back, he had a harsh grip on the luscious locks and forced her pale throat to be bared to his roving mouth. The little cries that fell from Abigail’s lips sent jolts of electricity directly between Rose’s legs. It just wasn’t fair...leaving her like this. But no matter how she tried to regain their attention, she was ignored. And so she could only lay back and watch as they fought for dominance, biting and pulling, scratching and moaning. Neither gave the other any quarter, and she could only grow more aroused with every passing moment. 

“Well it seems I should leave you two alone then,” she shrugged and slide off the bed. “I can see when I’m not wanted.” She had hardly made it to the post of the grand canopy bed when two arms wrapped around her waist. One belonged to Abigail, the other to James, catching her between them.

“We do not fool so easily, love,” her captain hissed in her ear, his hot breath tickling her neck. “You mean to provoke us.” 

“As though you do not enjoy chasing me,” one hand reached up to caress his arm, the other reaching for Abigail to do the same.

“This is true,” her girlfriend loosened her grip as did their captain until she could freely step away. “Though there is not much room to run here. You’ll just have to make do.” 

They chased her. Around the bed and across the room, knocking over whatever lay in their path. Rose leaped over a foot stool, ducking as hands tried to snatch her back. Circling tables and behind dressing screens they followed her, she ever twisting out of their reach. She could hear the blood running in her veins, her heart pounding with the thrill of the chase. 

“Think you can escape?” She rounded a table as her pirate tried to pounce upon her. 

“I can try, captain.” A quick spin and she put the armchairs and coffee-table between her lovers and herself. 

“You have nowhere to run, unless you want the servants to see your naked body.” Hook came at her from the left, Abigail from the right. Their eyes were dark with lust, raking over her nude form like ravenous wolves eyeing their next meal. She shivered, relishing how they looked upon her. 

“Would that upset you?” She taunted, seeing a route of escape near the wall where Abigail stood. “Having the rabble see me completely bare?” His eyes grew dark at that and she had to contain her victorious laughter. “Greedy eyes roving over my body, hands just itching to reach out and touch me.” He lunged to grab her in his jealousy, she quickly skirted him and rushed past as he and Abigail collided. Sprinting to the opposite end of the room, she took a moment to enjoy her victory. But it was not to last long. Icy eyes, two pairs of them that made her weak in the knees, turned their cold fury on her. 

“That was a mistake, pretty one,” the witch hissed. 

Rose felt the arousal building between her legs, hot and wet. She wanted them desperate for her, mouths watering for a taste of her. 

“Come get me, then.”

This time the chase did not last so long. They were after her in moments, coming close enough to leave scratches on her limbs and waist when they reached to grasp at her. It was Hook who caught her, his long stride easily catching up with her. His strong arm shot out, calloused hand finding purchase at her upper arm and dragging her back to crash against his chest. He barked out a laugh that sent shivers down her spine, holding her at the waist with an arm that might as well have been a band of steel. Musical laughter joined him as soft hands ran up her torso to cup her heaving breasts. 

“Well done,” Abigail congratulated their lover. “She is so pretty when we have her helpless.” Cool fingers pinched her nipples, a wicked smile growing on the witch’s red lips at the sounds she made. 

“What shall we do with her?” He leaned in, nipping at her throat and chuckling devilishly at how she shivered. 

“She is our prey, our beautiful trophy,” there was a spark of azure magic as Abigail became increasingly aroused. It sought out her own, and Rose’s body began to throb as though a hundred hands were already toying with her. She wanted them, she wanted them fierce and fiery eyed and eager. Her thighs were already slick with her need, and from the way Abigail’s smirk grew she must have noticed. 

“Oh my, what have we here?” Her fingers were so cold, Rose whimpered as Abigail dipped her fingers through her russet curls, spreading her lips and pressing at her entrance. “Our little chase has left our prey wet and wanting.” 

Rose watched with half lidded eyes as Abigail lifted her fingers, glistening with Rose’s juices, to James’ lips. He licked each of them clean. Rose’s breath came in a shuddering rasp, her grip on his arm tightening as she watch the blatant enjoyment he got from tasting her. Abigail slowly pulled her hand from his lips, curling around his neck to draw him in for a long kiss. Rose felt their grip on her weaken ever so slightly. If they meant to tease her it was working, she did so love to watch them together. But though the sight of her lovers was intoxicating, she wanted their attention to herself. So she slipped from their embrace, scratching them both as she put distance between them. James turned first, snarling at her, Abigail still half enthralled in the aftermath of their kiss. She had just made her way back to the posts of the bed when she crashed into something cold. 

Looking up, cool blue eyes twinkled with lust and mischief. Slender hands pulled her tightly to a womanly form, breasts pressing together, smirking lips descending on hers. Abigail had moved with supernatural speed to apprehend her, catching her once more and harshly reprimanding her for trying to escape. There was a light in her eyes that caught Rose’s gaze, holding her as though enraptured by a spell. She barely felt when their captain closed in at her back, clutching her hair and biting down hard on the tender flesh where her throat and shoulder met. A small sigh fell from her lips, her neck arching only slightly. Glimmering sparks lit her lover’s eyes, and she was drawn in like a moth to the flame. Abigail laughed darkly. 

“So sweet, so eager to serve. ”

Rose shivered, keeping her hands at her sides with great difficulty. She knew that one wrong move, again, and they very well could leave her to fall upon each other, forbidding her to ease her lust herself. 

“Shall we take our prize to her cage?”

He gestured to their bed, particularly the restraints hanging from the posts which she had not noticed before. Abigail’s eyes turned ever darker. 

“Lay yourself on the bed, pet, so that we can look upon our prize.”

Rose obeyed, gracefully circling the posts and curtains of the canopy. She could feel their eyes on her, roaming over the sway of her hips as she walked, curving her spine and pushing her arse up as she laid out on the tousled sheets. She gloried in the appreciative hum as she gently twisted onto her back, stretching her arms high above her, jutting out her full breasts. 

“Truly exquisite, a fine catch.” James strode closer to appraise her, his gait strong and determined. His fingers trailed up her body, from supple thigh to the pale column of her throat, she arched into him like a purring cat. He pulled his hand away to grab his hook and harness, shrugging into it and strapping it across his chest as his eyes raked across the woman displaying herself on the bed.

“True,” the witch toyed with the restraints. “But for all her loveliness, she is in need of discipline.” She toyed with the restraints at the footboard. “I have a proposition.”

“Do tell,” he came up behind Abigail, burying his face into her shoulder and pressing hot kisses to her throat. 

“She craves our touch, she’s wet and wanting for it. She cannot have it,” Rose looked up indignantly and went to sit up. “No,” she stilled. Slowly Abigail took the nearest manacle and none too gently wrapped it around her ankle. This was repeated for its mate, Abigail stood back to admire her work. “Are you desperate for release?” Rose nodded, not even bothering with words when she knew that only needy moan would fall from her lips. 

“What will you demand of her?” Hook asked, his hand roaming up Abigail’s body to cup her breast. A low hiss was his reward, her spine arching into his palm as her nipple hardened at his touch. 

“I want to her whimper and cry out for us,” she reached up to wind her fingers through his long curls. “I want her touching herself and imagining it was our fingers pumping deep inside her. Only when she falls over the precipice will we give her what she wants.” Rose looked up at them with pleading eyes. “Oh no, none of that. The sooner you please yourself, the sooner we can play with you. Consider this your punishment for denying us and insulting our treasure.” 

“Best do as she says, my beauty, or else you’ll be bound to that bed all alone all morning.”

Rose slowly laid back, though she kept her gaze locked on her lovers. Her slender hands drifted across her breasts, pinching her nipples until they turned pert and red. Down her body they drifted, sliding over her curves and spreading her legs wantonly. Abigail leaned back into Hook’s embrace, breathing deep the scent of Rose’s arousal.

“Have you ever seen such an intoxicating sight?” she asked him.

“Every day, love."

Rose whimpered as one finger slid between her folds. Hook bit the delicate flesh at Abigail’s throat, and his women moaned together. He thrived off the sound. His claw cleaved into the footboard, encircling his dark haired lady and bringing them closer to the auburn haired temptation on his bed. As Abigail leaned to bear more of her pale throat, a lock of curling hair caught on her ear. For a moment he thought he could see a pointed tip, but it was gone as soon as he blinked. His attention was quickly turned to Rose who whimpered and sighed as she pumped one, then two fingers deep within herself. 

“Yes,” Abigail hissed, her long nails digging into his arm. “Faster now, I want you to fuck yourself harder.” 

Their lover did as she was bid. Her hips jerked against her hand, her back arching with every jutting motion of her probing fingers. 

“Taste yourself,” the witch commanded. Rose licked her fingers clean, her free hand returning between her legs. Drawing them one by one between her lips, she sucked them tenderly and he grew harder at the sight. He would not suffer alone. Abigail too let loose an exquisite sound as he cupped her breast and rolled her nipple between his calloused fingertips. Her writhing body pressed to his cock and he pinned her to the footboard with a thrust of his hips. She tried to push back, opening her legs to let his cock slide between her dripping lips, but he would not enter her yet. Oh no, the tension had not yet risen enough for that. 

“Patience,” his hook traced a line up her body, circled her full breasts and rested at the tender column of her throat. “If our precious Rose must wait for me, so must you.” Abigail gripped one hand on his good arm, the other on the board, if possible she became even more wet. But her gaze remained on the bed, pupils wide and dark with arousal, full lips parted. 

“Rub your clit, Rose, now.”

She did and her back left with the mattress as she cried out. 

“Look at us.” 

Hook dropped his good hand between his woman’s legs, mimicking every stroke their lover made upon herself. Her eyes half closed, her face flush and breathing more of a desperate pant, Rose obeyed. She watched as the pirate toyed with her dark haired lover, how her bright eyes were dark and sparkling with magic induced lust. The Hook drew a drop of blood at her neck and Abigail’s eyes rolled back in delight. They were intoxicating. The heat building between her legs intensified as she watched them. Her thighs began to tremble, her climax was so close. In her free hand she gripped the silk sheets, toes curling, her moans growing ever louder and more needy. She wanted them, she craved their touch, the feel of their possessive hands and claiming lips on her, leaving her marked and wanton in their arms. 

“Come for us,” Abigail spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. Rose looked up at her, her lady who smiled a dangerous and mouth watering smile. Azure magic surrounded her, only amplified in her arousal. She was carnality and temptation incarnate, and she wanted Rose to give into her pleasure. As she screamed her orgasm, she could hear the delighted, sordid laughter of her lovers as they reveled in her compliance. 

“Very good,” James cooed as he kissed Abigail’s seeking lips. “Shall we reward our pet now?”

“Oh yes,” the dark haired witch breathed low against his lips. “How shall we do it, my captain? What prize do you deem worthy of such a performance?” 

“I rather like the picture of her tied up...it's quite fetching,” his eyes raked her body. Rose laid back upon the silk sheet, gently pulling at the restraints. She knew their game, knew that if she played along she could gain the touch she craved. 

“If that is what pleases you, my love,” she cooed. Her lovers admired her and she actually felt a blush creeping up her cheek.

“Quite lovely,” Abigail leaned into Hook’s embrace.

“What would you have of me?” the bound woman asked, trailing idle patterns on her bare skin. But the pale eyed witch shook her head at that, with a snap of her fingers Rose’s hands were bound as well, spreading her helpless across the bed. 

“None of that.” She gasped at the sudden use of magic and pulled at the leather to test the strength of the bonds. “Ah, ah, ah. You know how strong my power is. Bound as you are, you cannot break free. Now you are well and truly at our mercy.” A wicked gleam lit her lovers’ eyes as they shared a menacing laugh. Rose shivered and looked up through half lidded eyes, already feeling the arousal dripping between her legs again. 

“And what is your mercy?"

“Not very merciful at all, I'm afraid.” Abigail smiled coldly, her dark hair turning blue at the tips. James did not seem notice, but Rose did and her lust filled eyes widened.

“I never was very good at mercy, my pet.” James trailed his hook carefully across her flushed skin. The bound woman leaned into the caress of the cold steel even as her girlfriend’s eyes darkened, locked on her tantalizing form, then to their devilish captain.

“Oh, then I am fortunate, I wouldn't want this to end too soon.”

“End? My dear, we haven't even begun.” The pirate grinned cruelly, to which Rose leaned up as far as the restraints will allow. 

“Do your worst, loves. Make me scream.”

“And have the whole house hear your torture? I do not think so.” Another snap of the witch’s fingers brought a gag to her mouth and Abigail’s teeth seemed a little more pointed when she smiled. Rose’s breathing became more labored, not from the gag but from excitement. Her thighs pressed tightly together, a poor attempt to satiate the building desire. But the restraints around her ankles tightened, pulling her legs apart again. “No. Be good. Naughty girls don't get their reward.” Slowly, Rose closed her eyes, lay her head down upon a pillow and nodded. His arm sneaked around Abigail’s waist and he leaned in to whisper to her. 

“I have an idea, dear one.” Abigail smirked. 

“We're having the same idea.” Another snap and a blindfold covered their lady’s eyes. Seeking hands gripped the sheets tightly as her vision went dark. She could hear every whisper, every step either of them made, she could smell her own arousal, heady and wanting. She could see nothing, say nothing, and barely move at all, and it thrilled her. Two low chuckles resounded on either side of her prone form, one masculine and rough, one feminine and cold. 

“So lovely....so helpless....”

She pulled at her bonds, though they give no slack. A whimper escaped her, but her voice was muffled by the gag. Desperate for touch, left panting and shivering. A pair of fingers rubbed against her clit but there was no way to tell whose they are. She moaned, or tried to. Still, her hips tilted and pressed into the hand, her whole body quivering at that first touch. Then another pair of fingers pinched her nipple harshly. That sent her back arching, pressing her breast into the palm, breathing hitching at the pleasurable pain. His laugh rang low in her ear, his lips closing on her other nipple. 

Rose cried out against the gag, shuddering and shaking. The loss of one sense amplified the others. Hips pressed harder into the hand between her legs, desperate for more. A finger slipped inside her and sharp teeth sank into her neck. The sweet pain pulled a muffled shriek from her covered lips, her body writhing between the two of them and she grew more desperate. The finger curled inside her, finding that special spot among that sent her keening and shuddering. Both tormentors laughed. Her hips bucked and rode the plunging fingers, her grip on the restraints white knuckled. Another finger slipped inside her, this one cold as ice, and another cold hand wrapped around her arching neck. Rose panted desperately, her body nearly lifting from the mattress, the hand at her throat exciting her ever more.

More diabolical laughing and the mattress shifted as someone crawled between her spread legs and the fingers slipped out of her cunt. Rose went still...panting and waiting...thighs still quivering as she bemoaned the loss of the heated touch.

The head of his cock pressed against her entrance and he trailed the tip of his hook between her heaving breasts. She tried to lift her hips to meet him, whimpering behind the gag. He only laughed, the hook digging slightly into her smooth skin, and pressed into her tight heat. What could be his name escaped her, the clawing grip on the restraints went slack, her head craned back into the pillows. Cold fingers pressed against her lips just at the edge of the gag, wiping something that smelled like feminine arousal against her lips as he filled her over and over. Rose whimpered, wishing she could lick Abigail’s fingers clean, but she could not even beg. 

Suddenly the gag vanished and her lover was straddling her face, pressing her cunt against her mouth as James reached out to take Abigail’s throat, pressing a rough kiss to her mouth. Rose happily tasted her, tongue delving between her soaked lips at first, then swirling around her clit. She sucked, hard. Rose was rewarded with the sweet sound of Abigail’s cold voice gasping and moaning. Hook pulled out and roughly thrust deep inside her again. Rose hummed against the tender flesh, trailing hot kisses along her inner thigh before biting down, eager to leave her mark. 

“Ah ah ah, behave, little pet,” Abigail’s voice cracked out sharp as a whip. “Remember what I said about naughty girls not getting rewards.” Rose kissed the bite. 

“Forgive my hastiness, my love.” Long moans of ecstasy followed as she shuddered at the feel of him pounding into her. Her legs fought against the restrains, wanting to wrap round his waist but she was held fast. She returned to tasting her lover’s cunt, playing with her clit fast, then slow and swift again. His rough hand gripped Rose’s breast firmly and his hook pulled Abigail in for another kiss as the dark haired witch moaned against his mouth. The cries of the blindfolded woman began to grow more erratic as the heat between her legs built, hotter and hotter. The pleasure filled moans of her tormentors rang in her ears; his harsh breathing, her hums of delight. Without her sight she could not behold them but her hyper sensitive skin was set afire by their roaming hands. Abigail rocked her hips against her, riding her face as he drove himself deep within her Rose. They grinned at each other at how their pet’s desperate need only grew.

The restraints cut into her flesh as she began to pull hard at them. As she licked and sucked at Abigail’s clit, her own legs began to tremble. Tied as she was, she bucked and met him stroke for stroke as best she could.

“Harder, love. She's going to come soon.” Abigail egged him on with a cold smile. He looked up at her and stumbled for a second at the magic sparking in her pale eyes, cold and beautiful as ice crystals.

Rose whimpered at Abigail’s command to him, her muscles growing tight around James as her orgasm drew closer. The hum of magic was almost enough to make her climax from that alone, and she panted and moaned desperately against her lover’s warm flesh as she quivered beneath them both.

Abigail’s ears were pointed, he could see that now, a strange shimmer under her pale skin, but her dazzling eyes held him captive and he slammed harder into Rose.

“Oh gods!” their captive screamed. Magic floated around the trio, and it felt as though a hundred hands caressed their writhing bodies. A low hum met Rose’s ministrations and the slightest tremor shook Abigail’s legs. But James refused to let up, driving himself deeper and deeper inside Rose, angled to hit that sweet spot deep inside her. Nearly brought to tears from the ecstasy, she pressed her mouth hard to Abigail’s cunt, determined that they climax as closely together as they could.

But the blue-eyed witch had different plans and pulled away, reaching down to massage Rose’s clit as he fucked her steadily closer to her orgasm. Their pet licked her lips, relishing her lover’s taste. But she could not keep quiet for long, their combined touches pulling near screams of pleasure from her red lips. And the crest of orgasm started to flood over her squirming body. Hook stilled inside her, groaning at the feeling of her tighten and quiver around his cock. Then he withdrew, leaving Rose to quiver on her own and cry out at the loss.

“Why?” she whimpered.

“Shh, pet, let us watch you.” Abigail smirked, shifting down to straddle her hips, watching her pretty, flushed face. James took his cock, still wet from his first woman, and slid it into the other’s cunt just as she ripped away the blindfold so Rose could look into her lust-filled face. The sight that greeted her drew an appreciative moan from her lips, feeling her lust build anew watching her captain fuck their lover. 

“Unbind me, please, let me touch you too?”

“No. You're still being punished for running away from us and for insulting yourself.” Pale eyes flashed coldly down at her. “You get to watch. You already came twice, don't be greedy.” Hook fucked her hard and fast from behind, grinning down at Rose through his riotous curls. Rose looked into his eyes, already starting to show a hint of red, and pleaded with him sans words. But he paid her request no mind, and Rose moaned her want, pulling at her bonds in a futile attempt to reach either of her lovers. 

The Hook reached down to press against Rose’s pale throat.

“None of that, pet. You're already being punished for one transgression, you do not wish to add another. I hope you aren't ungrateful for the kindness we offered you without even seeking our own pleasure, hmm?”

She obeyed, transfixed, as Hook’s hand twisted into Abigail’s thick hair, pulling her head back. His hips slammed against her again and again and her cries increased in volume and pitch as his cock rubbed against her secret spot. Her body trembled, her core tightening as her pleasure built. His hook clawed at her shoulder, drawing blood as he pulled her back to press against his chest, his rough fingers turning her face so that Rose could watch her girlfriend’s lovely features contort in ecstasy. James drove deep into her, her body trembled as she tightened. Another deep thrust and his teeth sank into her neck with a growl, spilling his seed within her. 

His fingers dropped to caress her clit and her core tightened even more, her body cold in his arms despite the heat of their passion. When her eyes opened, they were even more bright and lustrous, her skin shimmering and pale. Something was building inside her and with every stroke of his fingers against her sensitive nub, that something was growing and she was going to lose control of it at any moment.

She screamed with her climax, her eyes wide and unnaturally bright. The great mirror splintered, frost creeping over her body, ice and shadow exploding out of her as her orgasm tore through her. 

When she was able to catch her breath and return to herself, she looked around at the master bedroom. It looked as though winter had struck, frost coated everything, furniture was knocked askew at the force of the blast, shadows hung like cobwebs, glittering with ice crystals. It was beautiful but in a terrible way. And it was still, so still. The only sound was her breathing. She pulled away from James to look up at him. His eyes were half closed, unseeing, and he did not move. Rose beneath her was also frozen in place and Abigail’s fingers shook as she reached out. She could not bring herself to touch Rose’s still body. 

She nearly fell off the bed in her haste to get away. Absently, she noticed that she should feel cold. She reached for her blue dressing gown anyway, wrapping it around her and hugging herself. She glanced to the cracked mirror and gasped at what she saw. She took in the sight of herself, unnaturally pale, dark hair showing more blue than brown, and pointed ears. Her distress only grew and she shook, not knowing what was happening. She backed towards a corner, watching as Rose and James slowly began to move again, to look around at the sudden chill and see what she had done. The restraints, brittle in the cold, cracked and freed Rose, who sat up, looking around for Abigail. 

“Abigail?”

James turned as well to where Rose was looking to see Abigail, clutching her dressing down about herself with eyes wide with fear. 

“Abigail?” Rose started to stand up, “Did you do this?”

Tears glimmered in Abigail’s eyes, “I...I don’t know what happened...I-I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.”

And she fled, leaving Rose and James to stare bewildered at each other.


	13. A Sudden Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaelige Translations:  
>  _Sláinte_ \- Cheers  
>  _An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?_ \- Do you speak Gaeilge (Irish)?  
>  _Beagáinín. Ní leor teanga amháin._ \- A little. One language is never enough.  
>  _An rud nach mbaineann duit ná bain dó._ \- Don’t interfere with anything that doesn’t concern you.
> 
> *Any Gaelige not listed here is translated in the next line or two. Save for a particularly colourful phrase translated in the End Notes*

It took but a moment for Rose and James to follow Abigail as she ran from their room. Rose had barely flung her nightgown over her head, James donning his bannon as they chased her down the hall. She did not get far, losing her strength to run as she cried, falling to her knees in the blue drawing room she had claimed as her own. They knelt on either side of her, careful not to reach out for her until she made it clear that she was comfortable with touch. Over and over again she wept her apology, and over and over again they accepted it. Neither spoke of her altered appearance, but in both their minds they felt inexplicably drawn to her new, alien beauty. She was a snow queen, or a midnight goddess, cold yet devastating in her allure. Abigail cried tears that froze on her cheeks, admitting that she felt terror when she saw her lovers frozen into living statues. They reassured her as best they could, telling her that it must be her powers unlocking just as Rose’s had in the garden. 

“Two sides of a coin, my love, “ James told her softly. “Winter and summer, you are. Had we been present as Rose was commanding the flora on the grounds, we might have been trapped in the earth or stung with thorny vines. Twas an accident, fair one.”

“We are safe, sweetheart,” Rose continued. “And we are not angry at you.” She turned to look through the open door to their bedroom. “And the frost is gone now, as though it was never there.” Abigail hesitantly looked as well, sighing with relief at the sight of a warm and iceless space. “Let us bring you back to bed where you’re safe and warm?” The blue in her hair began to seep away, the glow to her skin returned to her mortal complexion. And the sparks faded away to reveal her soft, baby blue eyes still filled with tears. 

“Please,” her voice was small and unsure. Rose took one arm, James the other and they gently lifted her to her feet. They put her in the center of the large bed, curling around her protectively. In her ears, now round and small again, they whispered words of love and comfort until she drifted off to a fitful mid-morning sleep. 

Breakfast was taken in the informal dining room on the second floor. More private, for use by the manor’s family, it was simpler than the state dining room downstairs. Simpler in the case of Black Barony though did not mean humble. Heavy wooden panelling covered every wall. Neoclassical pediments capped the doors and panels upon which portraits of esteemed ancestors and monarchs hung. Carven patterns of acanthus leaves and vases spilling flowers wound around the lower half of the wall, equal to the height of the buffet tables. A great bronze chandelier hung above the dining space itself, though it was not lit in lieu of the tall windows being thrown open to let in the morning breeze. The dining table was round, circled by wooden chairs which were carven from head to foot with decoration. 

Had they not already had a full tour of the house, Rose and Abigail might have been left breathless upon first sight. The room was still nearly larger than their whole house back on the Mainland, but it was nowhere near as opulent as the other chambers. At the moment though they were concentrating more on their meal than comparing architecture. Rose had helped herself to a silver sauceboat of blackberry preserves which she liberally spread on a steaming hot roll. Abigail was sipping tea and trying to choose between which of the many tropical fruits from the centerpiece to take for her own. Everything about her demeanor making it clear that she was not going to talk about the events of the morning and that she was just fine and very normal, thank-you-very-much. James was simply happy to have a steady supply of what called “decent English fare” at his fingertips again, his inner carnivore was showing. From the day they arrived he had not so much as looked at seafood and had ordered beef or lamb for every meal. Off to the side, though still close to the table, King James II happily feasted on cream and mackerel from feline-sized porcelain dishes. 

A servant came in bearing a polished tray. He bowed to the master of the house who took the envelope from said tray, then dismissed the man. The wax seal was sliced off, both the women had the thought that it must be quite efficient to have a letter opener attached to one’s arm but neither said it aloud. 

“Who is sending letters so early?” Abigail asked. 

“A reminder from Captain O’Malley,” he answered, his eyes swiftly breezing across the paper. “The whole island has gotten word of my arrival, and so everyone is clamoring to meet you. She’s especially excited.” He set the letter aside. 

“Is she the one who is holding the party you mentioned?” Rose looked over the discarded paper and read it over for herself. She knew well who Grace O’Malley was, the excitement was evident on her fact. 

“The very same,” Hook took a bite of beef wrapped in puff pastry and washed it down with claret. “We all take turns hosting, when it happens that we all are in town at the same time.”

“Have you ever done so?” the younger witch took an avocado and began to slice it open with a few deft strokes of her knife. She hadn’t looked either of her loves in the eye since she had woken up again for breakfast. 

“It has been a very long time since I have hosted any social event,” he appeared to think back. “Not often are all of my compatriots at home at the same time, so such frivolities are few and far between. Though depending on how long we stay I may have no choice but to throw an affair. But with you two here, that shouldn’t be an issue at all.” Rose looked up at him. 

“What does that mean?” the elder questioned, clearly confused. 

“You are my ladies are you not?”

“That’s fairly obvious,” the younger said, her words lacking her usual bite. 

“Then it would mean that you both must rise to the occasion if I should choose to host a party. Running of the house and playing the role of hostess does fall under the duties of a Baron’s lady,” he paused. “Or ladies, in this circumstance.” 

“James,” Rose began sweetly, “we don’t know anything about running a mansion. And even less about hosting a formal dinner for pirates.”

“We’re not exactly housewife material,” Abigail added. 

“Well do I know,” was his response. 

“Clearly, this means that he doesn’t see any value to keeping us around, then,” Rose sniffed. “Since we aren’t domestic little goddesses to run his house and play pretty hostess.”

“Damn it, woman, that isn’t what I meant,” Hook growled. “All I meant was that the two of you will be unfamiliar with the expectations and delicacy required to keep a house.”

“And now we’re indelicate!” Abigail shrieked, lobbing a strawberry at his head petulantly. 

“Stop twisting my words, vixen,” James exclaimed, wiping strawberry juice from his cheek. 

“Stop using words that are so easily twistable!”

“Children, it is too early for such noise,” Rose complained. 

“As my women, you will learn to keep a house, so help me!” James thundered. 

Abigail’s eyes narrowed, a waft of chilled air breezed against his neck, “James, are you familiar with the story of Queen Boudicca?”

“I may have heard the name once.”

“Read the legends about her and then try and tell an Irishwoman what to do again.”

His face was slowly turning red. A vein was beginning to pulse. 

“Rose, be sensible and help me,” he pleaded.

“No,” Rose said over her teacup. He spluttered. She shrugged, “I admit that we should probably learn how to deal with the house. But you should know better than to try to command us by now. You could have simply asked.”

“Maybe throw in a please or two,” Abigail hissed, popping a sugar lump between her teeth. 

“Now, we should know better than to ask that of him,” Rose cautioned, “Pirates don’t say _please._ ”

James slouched in his chair, staring down at his plate. Rose had been right. It was too early. His lips barely moved. “Will you….. _please_ …...try to learn to keep a house in order. It would be….greatly appreciated….on my part.”

Abigail pretended to swoon in shock.

“Of course, darling,” Rose said simply, sipping her tea. “Problem solved.”

“Fetch the smelling salts!” Abigail squawked, fanning herself and pretending to reel in her chair, “I have the vapours! He said _please!_ ”

James glowered at her. She blew him a cheeky kiss. 

“Of course…” she got a glint in her eye that he wasn’t sure he liked. “If we are to be _your women_ , as you so claim, why then, we must look the part.”

“Oh, of course,” Rose said, smirking over her fruit tart, “We’ll have to have special dresses made for the occasion. We never ordered any ball gowns.”

“Yes, yes,” James waved the hook tiredly, “Whatever you need. You know there is no shortage of coin where the two of you are concerned.”

“Yes, we know, darling,” Abigail cooed. Both women leaned over to press kisses to his cheeks. He muttered something roughly and poured a shot of whisky into his tea. 

“Ahhh,” Rose sighed with a smile, “domestic bliss.”

Breakfast continued in peace, smiles quickly returning in genuine. The women had just started tucking into oats drenched in honey when a servant politely knocked before entering. A young woman in the blue and white uniform dress worn by all the female servants bobbed a quick curtsy. The poor girl looked about as white as her starched apron. 

“A visitor to see you, my lord and ladies,” she announced. 

“First letters, now callers,” Rose muttered, not looking forward to having her morning interrupted any more. 

“Who is insane enough to be fully awake and traveling this early?” Abigail almost wished she drank coffee. Surely so much caffeine would be helpful right about now. 

“Well?” James drawled the question and the maid looked terrified. 

“Captain O’Malley, my lord,” she stuttered in reply. The trio at the table all looked to one another in confusion. 

“Escort her in,” Hook dabbed his lips with a napkin and stood, maroon bannon billowing behind him. Rose and Abigail did not rise, instead they continued to nibble at their food and pass scraps to their pet who now occupied James’ vacant seat. A short woman entered, kicking the door shut behind her. Her long, wild hair was the same steel gray as her eyes. Her tanned face was lined and weathered from a life time at sea. And she wore what appeared to be some kind of Elizabethan garb, a mesh of men’s and women’s clothing bonded together with belts and bandoliers. 

“James Hook, the great peacock comes home tae roost at last!”

They should have been surprised a little more than they were, but the witches were starting to become used to women sassing their lover.

“Grace, what a pleasant surprise so early,” his voice was only a little strained. But still he smiled and kissed the woman’s hand. 

“Ye never were all that good at lying, Jaime,” she winked. “And who do I spy eating at your table? Does the peacock have hens now?”

“Hens?” Abigail gasped as her spoon clattered to the floor. King James hopped after it and started to bat at it like a hunter chasing prey. Rose choked not in offense but in laughter and tried to hide her smile behind her napkin. Cool blue eyes glared at her but still a few titters escaped her. 

“Fine squawk on that one,” Grace O’Malley nudged her head in the witch’s direction. 

“You should hear her in bed,” James said smoothly.

“Do you take turns with them or is the Barony turned into a den of debauchery?”

“That, dear Grace, I shall leave to your imagination. Can I offer you a drink?” He lead his fellow captain to the table where he pulled a chair out for her.

“Tea, something strong and black with a splash of whiskey,” she shooed James off as though he were a butler. He did not seemed at all phased by this, rather he seemed rather used to the order and made his way to the buffet to prepare the cup. 

“Make that two,” Abigail said, finally looking up at the Irish Captain, a small smile on her face.

“Of course, darling,” he smirked over his shoulder. “Would you care for something too, dear heart?” Rose looked up, smiled, shook her head and held up her full cup. 

“So, Jamie has brought home two fine birds,” the thick Irish brogue contained an accent that neither of Hook’s ladies had ever heard. “Pretty plumage to decorate his ego? A soft spot in his black heart? I’m all for a good tale, start talking.”

“Grace,” James chided her as he set the tea cups down. “Should we not attend to business first?”

“Ye English are so prim and proper,” she grumbled. “Is he always this stuffy?”

“Only in the mornings,” Rose nuzzled James’ arm as he passed by her. 

Abigail nodded and took the first sip of her spiked tea. “Let him kill something and he’s right as rain.”

“Aye, that sounds like him,” Grace tasted her drink. The look on her face spoke of an experienced appraiser, it was almost as though she were testing Hook’s skill at mixing tea and alcohol. “Not bad.”

“High praise, coming from you,” he pulled up a chair from along the wall and sat between his women. “So, what brings you to my house so early?”

“It’s my turn to host the annual gathering,” she stated. 

“So your letter said. Why not let your pen do the talking, why come here personally?”

“And miss the opportunity to see an old friend? Jamie, you wound me heart with such talk!”

“Grace, we both know that nothing can wound that shriveled old muscle.”

All the while, the witches looked back and forth as the two spoke. Left and right, over and over like a game of tennis. The old woman laughed, or cackled rather, and uttered something in old Gaelic. 

“I missed that well intentioned rancor,” she downed half her cup. “Well, business then. The gathering is two weeks from today. I wish there could be more time tae plan but who knows when all the council will be together again. So dust off yer ballgowns, hens, you’ll have a court of criminals tae impress.” Striking gray eyes looked over them both, looking over them like they really were hens at market. “Pretty, maybe too pretty. Ye’ll have a hell of a time keeping the council menfolk and their ilk away from your mates. Well? Introduce me else that good form you prize so much will be in danger of being spoiled.” Hook bristled at the mention of his fellow pirates leering at his ladies. But he pulled himself into a semblance of fine decorum and gestured to the women on either side of him. 

“My Rose, Miss Belchiere.”

“French Hen,” Grace smirked. “You better be careful, dearie, the folks around these parts would just love to get their claws into an innocent thing like you.” But the russet haired woman did not look put off in the slightest. 

“Oh I hope so, it would give me something to sharpen my own claws on.” 

One thin, white brow raised at that but the Irish captain said nothing in reply. 

“My Abigail, Miss Ó Rinn-Sheehy.” 

“ _Sláinte_ ,” Abigail said, raising her teacup to the grey-haired Irishwoman.

Grace’s eyebrows lifted and she leaned forward, “ _An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?_ ”

Abigail shrugged, an elegant and careless gesture, “ _Beagáinín. Ní leor teanga amháin_.”

Grace laughed, a rough, warm sound, “I like you, Irish Hen! Aye, we’ll be fast friends, won’t we?”

James reached for the whiskey bottle and took a long drink as the Irishwomen clinked their glasses together in a toast. Rose patted his hook, as if it were his hand, and tapped her lap with the other. King James hopped up, purring and curling up happily. 

“Ye can’t hide yer ladies for long now, I heard tell of them before I ever set foot on the road today. Best they are kept under watch, lest one of those nasty ones try to steal them out from under yer nose.”

“Oh make no mistake, none of those unscrupulous characters will be any trouble here,” James set aside his drink in favor of actual food. “Do you require any assistance in preparing for your party?”

“Are ye offering to to plan the menu and decorate me house with boughs of garland?” Grace giggled. 

“Not myself, my good tastes are fine tis true, but perhaps my ladies might enjoy some time out of the house.” Abigail and Rose looked to one another, slightly shocked but excited none the less. “Would you enjoy that, my dears?” They both nodded. “Far better than my request to learn to keep house?”

“You asked this time,” Abigail congratulated him.

“Send your lovely hens over tomorrow then. With only Anne for company a woman gets bored. Now, just one more thing ‘fore I go.” James nodded and took another bite of pigeon pie. “There’s a choice tae be made, as to the last seat on the council.”

“I was informed that Laffite had met his Maker whilst I was away. Care to shed any light on that?”

“Not today, too much tae do. But after the gathering, that empty seat will needs voting on. Already there’s hopeful captains setting up shop all around Saint Erasmus, some folk are even desperate enough tae look to the ruins tae the west of the isle. Best we convene and sort the matter quickly before they start rioting in the streets.”

“ _Ní neart go cur le chéile_ ,” Abigail said, her eyes sparking with lightning.

“There is no strength without unity,” Grace O’Malley translated with a nod of agreement. “You have it aright, pretty hen. The Council is little better than squabbling women. We have tae be strong in this, ye hear, James Hook?”

“I hear,” he said, his voice rough.

“But,” Grace turned her flinty eyes to the dark-haired Abigail, “ _An té nach bhfuil láidir ní folair dó a bheith glic_.”

“Whoever is not strong must be clever,” Abigail translated, “Yes. Those gathering will be trying to wile and seduce their way into our ranks. We must be strong but also careful.”

“Our ranks” O’Malley raised a brow. “You are not one of the Council, hen. Do not overstep yourself.”

“Overstep?” Rose set her cup down firmly.

“My Rose and I are Ladies of Black Barony, Mistresses of James Hook, and witches of no common rate,” Abigail’s eyes flashed with ice, “We are one of you. And you would be a fool to deny it.”

“A dead fool,” Rose said, hazel eyes also fixing the Irish Captain with a stern gaze.

Silence fell between the women that stretched on, thick enough to cut with a knife.

It was broken by Grace’s rough laughter, “Aye, lass, ye’ve got fire in ya! I would luv tae see that Irish warrior spirit in action!”

Hook breathed a sigh of relief as the tension ebbed and the women fell to a bloody conversation. A discreet cough at his elbow brought his attention to the blond Chase Strand offering him a refill of his cup.

“ _Is folamh fuar é teach gan bean_ ,” the tall, blond man said with a smirk.

“What the bloody hell does that mean,” James said sourly.

“A house without a woman is empty and cold,” Chase supplied helpfully. “As would be your bed, Captain.”

"Do you Irish bastards have a way of saying ‘mind your own business’?” James sneered as he took his drink back in one swallow. 

“ _An rud nach mbaineann duit ná bain dó_ ,” Chase tossed back over his shoulder as he sashayed away. 

*** 

They were drowning in fabric. Wanting to impress Hook’s ladies, their tailor had sent them a treasure trove of formal gowns from which to choose. At the moment, their bedchamber was filled with a rainbow of colors, each gown more elaborate than the last. A streak of black and white darted over and under the many piles. King James seemed even more excited over the delivery than his owners. Abigail and Rose giggled, catching their kitten and leading him along with stray ribbons. 

Though the offerings were fabulous and great in number, the witches had chosen their finery almost from the first moments of opening the parcels. The remaining dresses could be returned in the morning. For Abigail, a satin gown of deep indigo. Full sleeves that hung to her forearm and a wide, low, square neckline contrasted her pale skin to the dark fabric. Both the cuffs and the collar were trimmed with indigo lace. For Rose, a silk creation of crimson. Tight sleeves clung just below her elbow with little bows at the edge. Her neckline was deep, scooped and cut in a deep vee between her breasts. Neither had tried their gowns on yet, simply admiring them laid out on their bed. As they played with their feline friend, the door to the study opened and in walked their lover. A weary looking valet scurried behind him, arms laden with ribbons, stockings, shirts, and all other masculine accessories. 

“Darlings, I am in need of your opinion,” he said while adjusting a lacy cuff about his claw.

“Do tell,” Abigail said from half underneath a petticoat of chartreuse and cream. Rose finally caught King James and flopped him over to pet his round, white belly. 

“I cannot decide whether a waistcoat of black with gold embroidery or one of gold with black embroidery would look better with my best onyx coat.” The witches looked behind their captain to look at the exhausted valet. Clearly this was not the first dilemma the poor man had to assist his master with today. Both women wondered how many colors James had gone through already, his wardrobe was even more extensive than theirs. Claiming an element of surprise as to his choice of suit, he had vanished some time ago to view his choices. 

“I’m sure you would be equally as handsome in either,” Rose said with a smile. 

“We all know this, dear heart, but there must be a decision none the less,” Hook replied in a very serious voice. 

“A most serious matter, this is,” Abigail nodded. 

“Quite right. Show the ladies my choices,” he commanded the valet. The man attempted to juggle the mountain of clothing and somehow found the two articles in question. With one index finger he held out a black waistcoat, on the other a gold one. Rose and Abigail tried not to giggle. Truly their lover was more of a fashionista than they were. “As this event is partly in honour of my return, and so also your debut into society, nothing less than perfection is necessary.” Though they still found humor in the situation, there was merit to what he said. This world, this magnificent, magical place was a home without compare. They could be free to be themselves, to love who they wished and practice their magic without fear of retribution. Well, the latter might be due to how greatly their magic had grown but the feeling was still the same. And this party would be the first impression they made upon those of Hook’s world, they wanted to make it a good one.

“I like the gold one," Rose said.

“I’m for the black one,” Abigail added. 

James did not appear in the least bit surprised.

“Shall I have to flip a coin?” 

His ladies looked drolly at him.

“Surprise us,” they chorused. 

He shook his head with a barely suppressed grin, spun on his heel and returned to his study, the valet hurrying behind him.

__A carriage arrived later that day to take the witches to the home of Captain O’Malley. With it came a burly, red headed man with one eye and an accent so strong even Abigail had some issue deciphering his words. But James revealed him to be Grace’s first mate, Liam, whom the Hook dubbed trustworthy enough for his ladies to travel alone with. There had been no time to learn all the complexities of those ruling pirates who they were to be rubbing shoulder with, but it was clear that their lover was on excellent terms with the Irish woman. So the women kissed James goodbye and strolled out to meet their hostess._ _

__“I was never much for all the pomp and pageantry of fancy dinner parties, back in the days of my youth.” Grace was seated in an ornate chair, rather like a throne, at the end of a long table. Her manor, Cragside, was a an intimidating structure built directly into the cliff overlooking the town. Made of grey stone, it was modeled after a a castle more so than a mansion. The gothic home sported armed guards walking crenellated parapets and two towers from which hung crow infested gibbets._ _

__“Too busy ambushing the English?” Rose asked cheekily._ _

__“They never learned, little French Hen,” Grace drank from her tankard. “Even after I snuck into the palace and had a little chat with their Queen. They’re still sore about that, you know. Your Jamie is one of the few...what do the Scots call them? Sassenach! Aye, he’s one of the few sassenachs that I can stand.”_ _

__“You have good taste, then,” Abigail grinned._ _

__“Speaking of taste,” Grace opened a leather satchel and pulled several sheets of paper out. “It’s been a long time since I hosted one of these gatherings, so we can expect quite a long guest list.”_ _

__“This isn’t an invitation event?” Rose asked, leaning in to see what the papers were._ _

__“You’re a proper little thing, aren’t you?” The smirk the Irishwoman sent her was both amusing and unsettling. “Each of the captains with a seat on the ruling council are expected to attend. That’s six. Five now that Lafitte’s gone and got himself killed. Now they usually bring at least their first mate and bosun, sometimes the lesser captains under their command too. But there’s also competition over who has the prettiest paramour, so the menfolk are always bringing their women. What with Hook having two,” Grace rolled her eyes, “those others will be scrambling to out do him, the idiots.”_ _

__“So how many will that make in total?” Abigail sipped her wine._ _

__“I would expect about twenty menfolk with at least one lady each. Give or take how many the captains bring in their entourage. Now my chef is all but leaping for joy at the chance to show off his skills. Here is what he’s proposing for the menu.” She slid the paper across the table and the witches eagerly began to read, their eyes grew larger and larger the longer the list went. For only three courses, there was enough to feed two armies. Soup, shellfish, puddings, fish, stuffed vegetables, seven dishes in total plus wines made up the first serving. Eight dishes comprising of meat pies, roasts, stews, roasted greens and game platters with claret filled the second. Desert, called the banquet course, was a tower of cream puffs surrounded by candied fruits, nuts, iced cream and finished with a sweet wine or port. Not used to such lavish spreads, Abigail and Rose were about to comment, a door hidden in the paneled wall opened._ _

__A tall, slender woman with dark blond hair lightly streaked with silver, golden brown skin and dark eyes entered the room. All she wore was a thin chemise that nearly fell off one shoulder, the clinging fabric outlining her pert breasts and long legs. She noticed the witches instantly._ _

__“And who are these pretty morsels?”_ _

__“Mistresses tae a certain James Hook,” Grace smirked, “Down, Annie girl. They belong tae him.”_ _

__“Belong?” Abigail’s eyes flashed with the chill of her voice, “We belong to no one but ourselves.”_ _

__“We've already had to make that that clear to him, we don't need to keep it up with everyone we meet.” Rose took a long draught from her glass._ _

__“Oh I like them, Gracie. Are you sure he won't mind if we keep them a little later than expected?”_ _

__“He'll be busy with his clothes and business all day, I bet he won't even notice,” Rose nodded as she spoke. The witches shared a knowing look and burst into laughter. Their hostess introduced them to Anne Bonny, the blond who apparently wanted to keep them._ _

__Planning resumed from there, albeit with Anne draped across Grace’s lap the entire time. Historian that she was, Rose was fair near chomping at the bit to know the story behind that development. But business before pleasure, she impatiently waited until they had run through the timeline of the party twice before allowing her curiosity to get the best of her. Abigail was taking notes the whole meeting, determined to know who was to be announced in what order and which captains were allied with who. She had enough Stage Manager experience on the Mainland to know that these sorts of events had to be carefully orchestrated and organised. She especially wanted to familiarize herself with those known to be less than hospitable to her Hook. A few names were noted, both witches committing them to memory. And then their roles for the evening were explained._ _

__They were new to the island, it was their lover’s duty to introduce them, but they were expected to protect themselves within reason. Decorum here dictated that even the mistresses of captains were presumed to know the deadly arts as well as those of the bedroom. To this the witches were more than happy to hear, in fact they almost hoped some foolish pirate overstepped his bounds just so they might show off their talents. By the time they returned to Black Barony, they were more than excited to play hostesses to a formal party to a hoard of bucaneers._ _

__***_ _

__The road leading up the Cragside was lined with iron torches on either side. Guards were hidden in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first notion of trouble. Footmen awaited at the gatehouse, ready to escort guests to the huge double doors of the main hall. A crier stood on the other side, shouting the names of each new arriving party. Not a single one of the Captain’s Counsel came alone. True to the hostess’s estimate, the room was soon filled with no fewer than thirty five elegantly dressed pirates, all from various times and places. Serving girls in Elizabethan dresses carried trays of ale, wine and sipping sherry, while young men in doublets and hose offered plates with fritters of currant jam and little mushroom pies. The iron sconces reflected their light on the many mirrors in the hall, filling the room with golden light. Enameled wood paneled walls inlaid with Celtic scroll work flanked grand paintings of the Irish coast above the two huge fireplaces. A musician’s balcony held six men, each with a different instrument and merry songs filled the large, almost Medieval chamber. At the far end stood a dais where Grace held court, each of the guests coming up to give her thanks and greet their hostess. Below her were three long tables, one parallel to her chair, the other two flanking it. They were set with fine cloths, crystal and pewter goblets, real silver utensils and plates that gleamed in the fire light._ _

__Hook had insisted upon arriving last, else the impact of his return would not be felt by all. Their carriage was black, with the Jolly Roger skull painted on one door and a blood stained hook on the other. Inside was covered in scarlet velvet, plush seats and a coal burning brasier for the chilly winter. He offered his hand, assisting each of his ladies into the coach before shutting the door behind him._ _

__“Drive on,” he called out the window and the carriage instantly began to move. His cool blue eyes raked over the women who sat across from him. “Did you choose your gowns simply to tempt me all evening?” The witches giggled and innocently traced the very low cut bodices._ _

__“Would you ever think us capable of such a thing?” Abigail gasped prettily._ _

__“What a notion,” Rose nodded. “That we would display ourselves so when all your allies and enemies were looking on.”_ _

__“Indeed, one might think they could be jealous of you for it.”_ _

__“I do not know whether to be frustrated with you or proud.”_ _

__The dark indigo satin only made Abigail’s fair skin all the more like fine ivory, soft and begging to be touched. A few dark curls lying against her slender throat, the eye could not help but follow its path ever lower to where the dark lace barely offered any modesty at all and drew attention to her generous bosom. The crimson silk brought out the lush pink lips and flushed cheeks that made Rose’s kisses a dream, giving her the effect of ever being ripe for the picking. Though her long hair was twisted elegantly atop her head, the tight and scandalous cut of her gown drew attention to her succulent figure._ _

__“Why not both?” the younger smiled._ _

__“Oh yes, it’s far more fun that way,” the elder nodded._ _

__Hook shook his head, the feathers from his hat flopping down to his cheek._ _

__“I wanted an entrance and you two will certainly make that wish come true. If someone does not lust for you instantly I would be very much surprised.”_ _

__“He’s so proud of us,” Abigail looked quite happy about that. Rose leaned in and whispered something in her ear, even in such close quarters he could not hear what was said but it brought a devious smile to his dark haired lady’s lips. “Oh yes, for when we get home.”_ _

__“What are you conspiring now?”_ _

__“If we told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Rose scolded him._ _

__“Have pity on me then,” he said in a false tone of dismay. “Give me some hint as to what my ladies have in store.”_ _

__“We hope you didn’t plan on sleeping tonight,” Abigail winked. “We ordered...something special along with our gowns just for tonight.”_ _

__Hook’s hand clenched into a fist and his eyes shut as he counted to ten._ _

__“You shall be the death of me.”_ _

__“Oh never,” Rose leaned over to pat his hand, his eyes were trained far below her lovely face. “We like you far too much for that.”_ _

__“Do you wish for me to order this carriage back around?”_ _

__They laughed and turned the conversation to the utterly boring in comparison topic of what and who they might expect at the gathering. By the time they arrived Hook had composed himself once more, though thoughts of his ever lusty women were never far from his mind. Servants bowed and scraped before them, many hiding their fear behind well practiced masks of disinterest lest they offend the guest of honor. The doors opened and a man in a green doublet, trunk pants and two toned hose greeted them._ _

__“ _Céad míle fáilte_ ,” the man said, bowing, “A hundred thousand welcomes.”_ _

__Hook nodded only slightly to the servant._ _

__“Are all the other captains arrived?” he asked cooley._ _

__“Aye, sir. All present and accounted for.”_ _

__“Excellent.” He gave the man the names and titles of his lovers, the crier nodded and slipped back inside, leaving the door open ajar. They could hear the hum of a crowd on the other side, the cords of music and the smell the food awaiting them. Rose took Abigail’s hand in her own, gave a tight squeeze. She was nervous but did not dare to utter it aloud, Abigail brought her hand to her lips and kissed it. For a moment they drew on one another’s strength, preparing themselves together. And then they heard the loud, clear voice announce The Hook. James stole a kiss from them both before striding through the doors as they were suddenly flung open._ _

__James strode through first, making his best leg, and glancing imperiously around the room as though to remind all of the gathered pirates and ladies that this was, in fact, a party for him. The crier boomed his titles and James sketched the most disrespectful of bows, the golden embroidery on his black coat glimmering under the candlelight. He was above each and every one of them and they would soon see why._ _

__Rose was next. Her nerves reverted her to posture training and walking etiquette that her mother had taught her as a young girl. She glided across the floor, her steps silent under her scarlet skirts and miniscule to give the appearance of floating. Her head was high and her lips were pressed tight together as her eyes darted around the room, taking in all the people she needed to impress tonight. This was her chance to make a good first impression and she struggled to keep her breathing regular as she stood tall. She curtsied as she was announced - much more politely than James - and placed her fingers in James’ offered hand, allowing him to kiss her knuckles with a tight smile._ _

__Abigail was last. She was not nervous. She was an actor, trained for the stage. She knew how to captivate and ensnare an audience. She knew how to make an entrance. She sauntered out next to James, taking great care that every step sent her indigo skirts swishing invitingly and her breasts bouncing under her lasciviously low neckline. She eschewed the posture and decorum of the high society and dared to place her hand upon her waist as she strode forward, her shoulder lifting as she glanced across the room, daring all to look at her and take her in. She was announced and she gave a flouncing curtsy of her own regulations, tossing her head back as she rose to look through her lashes at the gathered pirates. James offered her his hook, she rested her fingers upon it and he bestowed a smirking kiss upon her skin._ _

__They faced the crowd once again and, having made their entrance, descended the straight staircase before them to join their party. Said crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Curious ladies eyed the once eligible bachelor with steely or simpering gazes. The men whose arms they graced either gave Hook the respect he had long deserved, bowing and scraping as they passed or looked at his stunning companions with barely concealed lust._ _

__To this the captain held no interest, or at least his carefully guarded mask lent no hint as to what he might truly be feeling at the varied reception. But the women at his side noticed his keen eyes taking note of each and every man who looked a little too long and which women could not hide their jealousy. Not five minutes into the evening and already they had made at least a dozen potential enemies, the witches could not be more proud. They stopped before their hostess, this time Hook gave a respectable bow and his ladies curtsied gracefully as one._ _

__“My compliments, Captain O’Malley, on a splendid affair indeed. You have outdone yourself.”_ _

__Grace stood from her throne, the skirts of her forest green gown rustling about her. Rose and Abigail noticed that the gown was slit up the sides, that when the woman moved they swished to and fro and revealed her customary boots and hose._ _

__“Thank ye, Captain Hook, though I did have the best of assistance in planning,” she gave a slight nod to the witches with a small smile. “The island is glad tae have ye back, the council is complete for the first time in years and we have much business to attend to. But before then we can enjoy ourselves.” Grace clapped and the doors along the wall opened to a parade of servants bearing platters of steaming hot food. “And speed that music up, some of us like something that doesnae sound like a funeral dirge!”_ _

__“Ever the elegant hostess,” James smirked as Grace descended the dais with Anne appearing at her side. “Captain Bonny, it has been an age since last I saw you.”_ _

__“Aye, that it has,” the blond woman linked arms with her lover and looked over his women with an appraising eye. “God have mercy but you are a blessed man, James Hook. How did you let them out of the house dressed like that and not fall to your baser instincts?”_ _

__“I assure you it was no easy feat.”_ _

__Abigail and Rose shared a knowing smile._ _

__“I do believe I see a line forming tae greet ye, I do not envy ye all those introductions,” Grace rolled her grey eyes at whatever sight was taking shape behind them. “Anne, let’s go see which cask has been opened and refresh ourselves, we can take bets on who tries to steal the hens from under the cock’s beaky nose first.”_ _

__“Enjoy the party,” Anne grinned as she was dragged off to taste the spirits._ _

__Doing so left Hook at the dais, the grand chair just behind him and the gala playing out before him, a very deliberate move on O’Malley’s part. But he showed no sign of flustering or frustration, in fact he fell into his role as naturally as though he were born to it. His ladies knew that actually, he had been. As he greeted the guests and answered whispered questions from the servants they realized that though the party might be for pirates, that this was the closest they might ever see of the nobleman he had once been. How he comported himself, the way in which he addressed each party goer, inquiring over matters of future ventures, how he presided over the head of the room, he was every inch the Baron Heathfield once more._ _

__At least until a great, ruddy-faced man stumped through the crowd and toppled over the maid whispering to James. The tall, strong man walked with a crutch and was missing his left leg, but it did not slow him down. Rather he made waves in the queue as people leapt out of his way. His beard was large and red, his cheeks rosy from spirits and excitement as he bore down upon James._ _

__“Hook!” He bellowed, his face splitting wide in a beaming grin, “James Hook!”_ _

__“Silver,” James greeted him with a genuine smile._ _

__The red-haired giant barrelled towards his friend, wrapping his arms around James, squeezing him tightly. The crutch clattered to the floor and the page that followed the red-haired pirate tiredly picked up the wooden crutch with an expression of professional neutrality. James steadied his friend with a grin and helped him get his balance again._ _

__The other pirate slipped his crutch under his arm and clapped James’ shoulder hard enough to knock him slightly off balance._ _

__“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us, brother!” The red haired pirate boomed in a warm, brassy voice. James smiled._ _

__“It is good too see you too, John,” he replied. He gestured to his women and said, “My darlings, allow me the genuine pleasure of introducing you to Captain John Silver.”_ _

__Rose curtsied and Long John Silver swept his hat from his head to bow surprisingly gracefully considering his missing leg, and kissed her hand._ _

__“Silver, this is my Lady Rose Belchiere.”_ _

__Silver winked up at her before straightening and Rose smiled. This man was infectious._ _

__“And my Lady Abigail Ó Rinn-Sheehy.”_ _

__She swept a tiny curtsy and he kissed her hand warmly._ _

__“Leave it to the great peacock James Hook to capture not only one beauty, but two exquisite creatures,” Silver grinned. Rose and Abigail decided in that very instant that they liked him._ _

__“Indeed.”_ _

__The new voice came from behind Silver’s bulky frame and James instantly stiffened._ _

__“Look out,” Silver hissed before stepping off to the side to reveal a new pirate lord._ _

__His umber coat was heavy with gold embroidery, ivory lace dripping from his wrists. A powdered wig rested on his head and his green eyes were bright and cruel. On his arms were two women who eyed James hungrily. Rose thought she recognized the honey-haired woman from the Sword and Sheath, but couldn’t be sure. The other woman hung back, her bright blond curls piled on her head, her fan fluttering before her face. James’ blue eyes were focused hatefully on the pirate, his jaw tight._ _

__“Vane,” he growled._ _

__“I must say, this island has seemed much too large without the illustrious company of James Hook,” the pirate lord sneered. “And now, it might be too crowded with Hook and both of his women.”_ _

__James’ hand clenched into a fist._ _

__“I can understand your eye for beauty, Captain,” Vane said, his brow arching coolly, “You and I have never agreed on what beauty truly is. But I would have thought a proud and noble Englishman like yourself would be better than this.”_ _

__“Better than what, pray tell,” James snarled._ _

__“Better than lowering yourself to consort with a French frog,” Vane said, eyes passing dismissively over Rose. Rose gasped and Abigail took her arm, pulling her protectively behind her. Vane’s thin lips twisted into a cruel smile._ _

__“Much less a green Paddy whore.”_ _

__Abigail’s teeth clenched and she was halfway through the arc of a punch when Silver snatched her wrist from the air._ _

__“No, lady,” he growled to her, “This is not a place to start a duel.”_ _

__Vane’s tanned face bore an excessively smug smile as he took a step closer to Abigail, “You might have dressed her up like a lady, James, but she’ll always be wild green hussy. No matter how pretty her face is.”_ _

__He leaned closer as though to inspect her face and Abigail spat at him._ _

“ _Póg mo thóin!_ ”

__The glob of saliva struck his cheek and he recoiled, his hand rising in horror to wipe his face clean as a soft gasp rustled through the entire crowd. Rage sparked in his green eyes and he started to reach for Abigail’s pale throat. A blade slapped across his knuckles and he glanced to the side where James had unsheathed his dirk and stepped closer to Vane._ _

__“Touch her,” James whispered, red beginning to glow in his eyes, “And you’ll lose that hand.”_ _

__Vane sneered and stepped away. His companions took his arms, fluttering around him._ _

__“At least the French slut knows how to behave herself around her betters.”_ _

__And he walked away, leaving Abigail seething, flushed with anger, and Rose stunned._ _

__“I see ye had the pleasure of meetin a certain Captain Charles Vane.”_ _

__Grace O’Malley seemed to appear out of nowhere on Rose’s other side, grey eyes following Charles Vane as he crossed the hall._ _

__“Right nasty piece of work he is,” she muttered._ _

__“I need a drink,” Abigail hissed, her eyes narrowed into blue slits as she glared daggers at the back of Vane’s smug head. Grace snapped her fingers and a server appeared with a cup of Irish whiskey. Abigail downed it in one swallow and hurled the glass against the stone wall where it shattered. The staff quickly cleared away the broken glass and Rose took Abigail’s hand._ _

__“Calm down,” Rose whispered urgently, “We’re still at the party, we need to keep calm and make a good impression.”_ _

__“A good impression?” Abigail snarled furiously, “Rose, he insulted and humiliated us in front of everyone and you’re worried about keeping a good impression?”_ _

__“Yes,” Rose answered quietly._ _

__Abigail scoffed, “To hell with good impressions, let me challenge him.”_ _

__“You can’t.”_ _

__She glanced over as James who had finally spoken._ _

__“Why the fuck not?”_ _

__“Only another pirate lord can challenge Captain Vane. That’s the case of all of us lords.”_ _

__“Then why don’t you do it and avenge my honour,” she snapped back at him._ _

__“He baited us and you rose to it.” Rose said soothingly, “Show them that we’re better than him and they’ll respect us more.”_ _

__Her lip curled, “I hate politics.”_ _

__Abigail’s breast rose and fell with her angry breaths, the corset making her breathing shallower. Her eyes were still furious as she refocused on Rose._ _

__“We’re better than him,” she said at last._ _

__“We’re better than him,” Rose echoed with a smile and an encouraging nod. “Come dance with me. You love dancing. It’ll calm you down.”_ _

__Abigail allowed Rose to take her hand and lead her out to the dance floor. There had been a crowd already spinning and gracefully exchanging positions to the tune of the Duke of Kent’s Waltz. Rose loved that dance, she had learned it by heart as a young girl after her Jane Austen enamored parents had joined a historic dancing club. She had taken Abigail to more than a few meets, as her girlfriend adored dancing and learned every new style possible. But though it was a beautiful dance, such a slow and sedate song was not what Abigail needed right now. To the shock of the crowd, she twirled her lady into place and strutted up to call to the musicians on the balcony._ _

__“Gentlemen, do you take requests?” The half dozen men in their O’Malley clan colors looked to one another, unsure of how to answer her bold interruption. But she was the mistress of the guest of honor, and they were a little afraid they would offend their employer if they ignored her. Finally one of them mustered the courage to address her._ _

__“What would you have of us, Madame?”_ _

__Rose smirked, her hands on her hips and considered her choice._ _

__“Do you know Dieupart’s Gigue in F minor?”_ _

__“But of course,” they seemed impressed with her choice and smiled._ _

__“You heard Mistress Hook,” the leader took his seat and played out a tempo for his fellows. All the while, the dancers who had until then claimed the floor scattered as Rose walked through them to take her place at Abigail’s side. The first few notes resounded in the hall, the sorceresses curtsied to one another. Around them ladies fluttered their fans and looked on with scandalized powdered faces. Two women dancing together? With nary a man in sight? Rumors and gossip were already circling as their dance began. It was a rather courtly routine, lots of hops and flourishes._ _

__A natural dancer, Abigail’s lines were crisp and elegant, her head turning swiftly and firmly as the dance required. A trained dancer, Rose’s footwork was impeccable, hitting every step with practised ease, her fingers gracefully relaxed even as the flourishes taxed their muscles._ _

__They moved back forth the length of the dance floor, side by side then back to back. When the steps permitted, they rounded one another scandalously close, shoulders brushing and breasts nearly pressed together, smiling indulgently at one another as the gasps of shock reached their ears. Their full skirts, scarlet and indigo, swirled around them in a whirlwind of vibrant color. When the dance called for changes of step, they lifted their petticoats far above the ankle and giggled when a nearby gentleman swore in half intoxicated French. As they skipped to the head of the room, they winked at their lover who seemed to be preening at their skill and carefree display._ _

__When they danced side by side, arms raised in graceful arcs, they leaned in dangerously close and blew kisses to one another right before twirling away. The chords of the violin faltered and the crowd laughed at the red faced musician. They ended their dance in a vision of elegance, turning on their toes and resting at the final note with smiles on their faces. A round of applause, both over excited and blatantly made, echoed in the grand hall. Rose took Abigail’s hand in her own and in imitation of a gentleman, brought it to her lips._ _

__“As usual, you dance divinely,” Rose flirted._ _

__“Oh I know,” Abigail pulled a fan from her bodice and fluttered it. “It is so hard to be so perfect but someone has to do the job.” They laughed and noticed the curious looks being sent their way, once the applause died down. “Oh look, I do believe they are starting to figure us out.”_ _

__“Would you look at that,” Rose traced the low cut of her lover’s bodice. Abigail’s generous bosom was straining against her stays, and Rose was clearly enjoying the view. “Do we dare to justify their theories?” They looked as one to a preening Hook._ _

__“Oh yes. Let’s do.”_ _

__They kissed, amid gasps of shock from the gathered pirates. It was chaste and quick, but they knew they had made an impression. As Abigail pulled away, Captain Vane caught the corner of her eye. Lounging against a pillar and dutifully ignoring his companions for the evening, he gave a very exaggerated, very fake yawn. Abigail’s eyes narrowed._ _

__“Rose,” she said quietly, “Do you want to have some fun?”_ _

__“Aren’t we already having fun?” Rose asked, eyebrow lifting._ _

__Abigail refocused on Rose’s slightly pink face and a devious smile curled her lips._ _

__“Irish Washerwoman.”_ _

__Rose’s eyes widened and her own red lips spread into a broad grin, “Oh yes.”_ _

__“Maestro!” Abigail called, snapping her fan shut._ _

__“Mistress Hook!” the violinist called down to her, standing with his fiddle under his arm._ _

__“Do you know The Irish Washerwoman?”_ _

__The Irish musician grinned, “As well as my own name, Madame!”_ _

__“That is my request!”_ _

__“I am glad to grant it!” The violinist raised his voice to fill the room, “My lords and ladies! Take your places for The Irish Washerwoman! In the true spirit of the Lady Hostess and the true Irish fashion, you dance until you cannot dance any more! Ready yourselves!”_ _

__An excited crowd hurried to find their places, clearly this was a favorite amongst the court of thieves. This time, Abigail twirled Rose into the ladies’ line, taking their place of honour at the head of the set. Several women gave the couple pause, sending Abigail and Rose half lidded glances and licking their lush red lips. The dark haired witch mouthed the word ‘later’ to her beloved who nodded with a grin. Bows and curtsies were made and the women faced the head of the line, the men the rear. There were no introductory chords to this dance, no time to find one’s feet, it rushed into gear to the happy cheers of the dancers. Both lines sashayed to one another, passing at their shoulders and kicking out their feet in a speedy four step. They passed again back into place and rushed to their partners to link arms and turn in four dizzying circles. Arms were switched and the couples turned counter clockwise, hands not linked thrown into the air as laughter filled the room._ _

__Abigail and Rose clasped both hands and skipped down the center of the lines to the clapping of those resting out of set. Feet stomped from the audience and shouts joined the fast paced song. At the end of the set, they kicked out another complicated four changes of step before rushing back to to the top of the lines and swirled into place. Their skirts flared out around them as they skipped around the couple next to them to join hands in a circle with another duet and turned a full circle in either direction. And then they fell back to the start once more._ _

__“Faster!” Abigail called out._ _

__“Aye, Madame!” the leader of the band answered. And the music sped up to the excited cries of the crowd. Every time a round of steps was completed and the witches moved down the set, they would call out to speed it up. Couples began to disappear, some voluntarily, others by a twirling skirt to the legs which sent them dropping to the floor and causing a domino effect down the line. To this, the Mistresses Hook laughed and hopped over their fellow dancers and set the bar high to any who dared try to jump in._ _

__The dance was finally declared finished when the musicians themselves could no longer play any faster. Abigail and Rose, the clear victors, laughed and hugged, quickly releasing each other at the heat their bodies were putting off from the exercise. Rose produced her fan to cool her brow and Abigail reached for a chilled glass of champagne that a maid was standing by to hand to her. Both of them were breathing heavily but Abigail was exhilarated. She loved dancing and even seeing Vane across the room could not dampen her excitement. The fast dance had burned away her anger and turned it to fun, and pride at the chance to show off her skill on the dance floor._ _

__It was too warm and crowded in the ballroom and she politely excused herself, pleading to be allowed to take some fresh air on the arcade framing the back gardens. James took Rose’s hand to ask for a dance and Abigail made her way through the press of pirates and people. She brushed past Vane with a surprisingly polite smile, her mood greatly increased by the dance. His green eyes followed her as she swept from the hall._ _

__The arches of the arcade provided her a place to lean and rest, letting the air caress her skin. The sun had just sunk below the horizon as she slowly walked the arcade, the twilight giving her a chance to breathe. She kept walking the covered walkway until the whisper of her skirts against the stone was louder than the music and laughter from the great hall. There were statues of heroic Irish legends that lined the arcade; Cú Chulainn, Queen Medb, Brian Boru, Scáthach and the Children of Lir. Giant urns carved from granite held creeping vines and fragrant herbs. Higher still were the ramparts, she could see them silhouetted against the full moon. The gentle breeze blew through her hair as she sipped her champagne with a smile. Such a beautiful night._ _

__Meanwhile, the festivities were still going strong in the main hall. After such a taxing jig, Rose felt pity for the other revelers and asked the band to take a short respite before playing something more sedate. They did not disappoint. A slower, more sensual take on the promenading pavane was struck up. Eyes blue as forget-me-nots flashed to his lady, who snapped her fan shut with a smile. Men and women formed two lines on either side of the dance floor, couples circling one another as they gracefully moved towards the center. Instead of taking her hand, as the other men did, James pulled his lover flush to his side, his bladed arm tight around her waist. Unafraid of the hook, Rose lovingly laid her hand over the weapon and cared not for the looks of shock and awe that followed them. When all in the parade were partnered on the floor, the gentlemen dropped to one knee before their ladies. With her pale hand still on the deadly hook, Rose gathered her skirts in the other and delicately circled her captain._ _

__Those piercing eyes kept her gaze the whole time. Kneeling as he was, Hook might have had the perfect view of her immodest neckline, yet he did not take advantage of his luck. Instead they stared into one another’s eyes, an unspoken conversation, until his hand took place of the weapon and he rose to his full height. Now it was he who prowled around her. Slowly, methodically, to the tempo of the romantic melody. His arm brushed her breasts, his fingers trailed across her arms, and she barely repressed a shiver. Then their hands were joined as a group of five couples formed a starburst, moving as one, every other graceful step a dip before turning once more. When the promenade formed once again to leave the floor, Rose felt his arm snake around her waist again, his hand this time rested high on her bodice, right below the vee in the center where her stays barely contained her breasts._ _

__“When we return home,” his deep voice whispered in her ear, “we three shall celebrate...properly.”_ _

__“Promise?” she whispered cheekily back. Hook growled under his breath and pulled her aside, past the hordes of cavorting guests. Up in the balcony, the musicians began to play the galliard. If the Washer Woman was a feat of speed, and the pavane was sensual, then the galliard was something in between. Lively, with many steps and clapping but short of a full jig. James lead Rose away from the dance floor, his arm freeing her from its grip to take a glass of champagne from a passing server. He had been about to offer some to her when a snide voice cut into their happy bubble._ _

__“Do be careful, Hook, letting your women wander freely.” The pleasant mood turned sour as they both turned around to find Charles Vane approaching with one of his courtesans at his side. Unlike her escort, the honey haired woman did not appear to be having a good time. In vain she tried to turn his attention to her and her rather revealing gown but he batted her away like a troublesome gnat. But neither would he allow her to leave his side, Rose noted the harsh grip he had on the woman’s delicate wrist. Hazel eyes narrowed and she seriously considered hexing him then and there._ _

__“My women are no concern of yours,” Hook said tightly. His hold on the glass threatened to shatter the fragile flute._ _

__“I’ve always found that if you don’t keep your bitches on a tight leash they tend to roam with any mutt they find. Best you don’t let them forget who is master, James.” Vane left with a cruel smirk and a sharp tug on the woman, tossing back over his shoulder, “T’would be a shame if one of them were to be harmed without you there to protect what’s yours.”_ _

__Hook started forward, his weapon drawing back as if to strike. Rose stepped before him, her hand gentle on his arm, a calm expression on her face._ _

__“Not here, darling,” she said softly. “He’s not worth ruining our evening.” He took several long, deep breaths before nodding._ _

__“You are right, of course. Vermin such he are not worth slandering good form over.”_ _

__“Exactly.”_ _

__It seemed that all might go well from that point on, had it not been for one very obvious thing._ _

__“Where precisely did Abigail go?”_ _

__Rose froze at his question. She looked around, their lover was not in the room. Though they knew she had plead a faintness from the heat of dancing, she had yet to return. Picking up her skirts, the sorceress hurried through the crowd, making her way to the open doors which lead to an arcade nestled in the center of the keep. The place was empty. James stood at her side, his sharp eyes scanning the windows, balconies and catwalks for any sign of life._ _

__“She just went to explore,” Rose told herself more so than her captain. “Abigail loves to explore old buildings, especially alone, she feels more at one with an ancient place when she has peace and quiet.”_ _

__“She hasn’t been gone overly long,” Hook began striding across the lush green grass in the middle of the courtyard to the doors on the other side. Rose lifted her heavy petticoats and struggled to keep his swift pace in her gown and heeled slippers. But even in the galleries and sitting rooms, they did not find her. Higher and higher they went, deeper into the Cragside castle until they came at last to a parapet overlooking the sea._ _

__“Dear gods, where could she be?” Rose bit her lip in worry. “You don’t think….you don’t think that someone might have taken her?”_ _

__“Under O’Malley’s nose? With me looking on?” Hook cursed under his breath. “Who would dare? It’s brazen, foolish and breaks one of the core codes amongst the captains.” Rose leaned against the arched doorway, breathing hard through her tightly bound stays, tired already from the running. But for all her rushing, she felt eerily cold._ _

__“Vane might.”_ _

__Those blue eyes she adored began to burn red._ _

__“He all but flaunted it,” James growled. “Right in front of us. And we were none the wiser. Damn him!” The Hook crashed on the stone wall, sparks flying. In the dim light of the sparkle combined with the silvery moon, something caught the witch’s gaze._ _

__“James, wait,” she took careful steps forward. Standing at his side, she gripped the low wall, careful not to slip on the slippery surface not a foot away from them. “It’s ice!”_ _

__“In summer? Rose, this is no time to wonder about the….weather.” His words trailed off as he recalled another balmy night that was marked with a sudden cover of frost at his lady witch’s explosion of ecstasy. Abigail was a weather witch, she could call up storms, rain, sleet….and winter. He looked at the fine sheen of crystalline frost which covered a small square of path, creeping up to coat one of the crenellations. There was a line of pots along one wall, all holding some kind of creeping vegetation. The one nearest the ice was broken, its contents spilled on the ground. Footprints, delicate and heeled, stood out in the clumps of earth._ _

__“There was a struggle here…” Hook carefully looked over the scene, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, his blood turning as frigid as the frost before him. This could not be happening. “Someone has taken her!”_ _

__“Look!” Rose pointed._ _

__Silhouetted against the moon, a human shadow leaned over the parapet, looking down at the sea below._ _

__“You!” Hook bellowed, “What happened here?”_ _

__The shadow recoiled in surprise and, before their very eyes, dissolved into wisps._ _

__Hook’s blue eyes turned red and he unsheathed his sword, “Vane....I’ll tear him for this!”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra Translation:  
>  _Póg mo thóin!_ \- Kiss my ass!


	14. Nights Spent Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long. Life has been hectic for me of late. My co-author has her life better together and updated the FF version weeks ago. But everything's fine and here's the new chapter! I appreciate your patience!

Rose could barely keep up with James’ long strides on a normal day, but to chase him through a castle wearing a full ballgown was asking too much of her. She tried to call out to him, begging him to slow down but he either could not hear her or he just chose not to. Her heart was beating hard, her breathing began to hurt as her stays seemed to grow even tighter with every step she took. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. What was happening? How had Abigail suddenly vanished? What was that shadow and had it something to do with the ice on the ramparts? Where was Abigail? Rose’s heart felt as though it might break and she cursed herself. Why had she stayed behind to dance? Those few moments in the ballroom could have been used to follow her beloved, even just to check on her. If she was hurt while Rose was laughing on the dance floor, the auburn haired woman would never forgive herself. Just before the door to the hall, Rose held herself against the wall to catch her breath...and fight back tears. 

“Abigail,” her lips trembled as her girlfriend’s name echoed in her ears. Where could she be? What could Rose do? Her mind tortured her with the worst scenarios imaginable. She might have slipped off the ramparts, fallen into the sea. That shadow creature might have stolen her away. Rose wanted to cry but knew she could not, not at this moment. She could not lose herself, or else she would lose Abigail too. And she would not lose her beloved, she had to pull herself together. A roar from the ballroom made her jump. The clang of steel made her blood turn cold. She rushed through the doors just in time to see her James charging at Charles Vane.

“Where is she?” James screamed. She did not have to see his face to know his eyes had gone red, his voice was evidence of his fury. Vane said nothing, too shocked for words as he fought to keep his head. 

“What do ye think ye’re doing?” Grace shouted over the astonished crowd. But Hook did not care to answer. Instead he fought on, spinning with sword and hook flaring out in a tornado of steel. Rose pushed through the party goers, muttering hasty apologies as she forced her way towards the fight. 

“Answer me, swine!”

The sword nearly carved out a hollow in Vane’s chest. 

“The hell are you talking about?” 

A sharp clang rang over the shouts of the crowd, Vane had just barely parried another blow. Around her, Rose could hear the shock of the captains as they tried to cease the fighting and the wagers going on behind their backs. But when the crowd would not move for her any more, when they began to enjoy the horrible display, she let her manners fall to the wayside. She shoved, kicked and scratched her way through, not caring when she sliced open the cheek of one of Vane’s blond companions. The woman shrieked but Rose didn’t even bother looking back.

“What have you done with her?”

The Hook took off several hairs from the powdered wig.

“With who?” Charles Vane bellowed back as he finally caught his footing and began to fight back in earnest. 

“My Abigail!”

Rose had at last made her way to the inner circle, where the many guests had formed a ring around the duelers. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling her gasp as she found the blazing eyes of her lover almost sparking in rage. She had never seen his eyes so scarlet, never had she seen them light his face with a glow that reeked of the infernal. He frightened her.

“Why should I know where you left your whore?”

“You already confessed to your crime! Now give her back to me!” 

Hook charged, throwing all his strength into an arc of incoming metal that Vane hardly escaped. The sword crashed into a buffet table, nearly splitting it like a log. Vane’s powdered wig toppled off his head, revealing mussed brown hair half slick with grease. The once haughty captain looked to the table, then his attacker, and actually paled. Hook left the sword where it was, trapped in the wood like some warped and wicked Excalibur. As he reached into his coat, Rose knew she had to act before he ruined what little chances they had to find their beloved. 

“James, stop it!” she screamed just as he used his hook to cock the pistol. Her arms latched onto his, taking him off guard and twisting the weapon from his hand. 

“Rose! What the hell are you doing?” he shouted in her face.

“Saving you from yourself!” Quickly, she turned down to see where the gun had fallen and kicked it to their allies. Silver’s page rushed forth at the barking of his master and snatched it up. 

“We have to make him talk!”

“And we can’t do that if you give into your rage and shoot him! We need him alive!” It took all her strength to keep her hold on him. James was so much taller and stronger than she, but like Janet with Tam Lin she would not let her lover go no matter how he hissed and clawed at her. 

“Keep him alive for what?” Their hostess had made her way into the circle now. Green clothed guards armed to the teeth stormed the hall, pushing back the crowd and forming a line between the two men ready to tear out one another’s throats. 

“Ask the dog himself, he knows well what he has done,” Hook growled.

“What care have I about your sluts? 

“Damn you!” Rose was nearly pulled off her feet as he lunged for his enemy, but her grip held true and her weight held him back. Her voluminous skirts swirled around them, hard enough to give Hook a short pause as the heavy silk hitting his legs. 

“Please, James,” she begged now and he finally turned to look at her. Though his eyes were still glaring red, they did not hold that hellish light from earlier. “Don’t let him play you, don’t give him what he wants.” Slowly the blue returned to his furious gaze and at last she allowed herself to breathe a little easier. Her trembling hand reached up to cup his cheek, he only slightly leaned into her touch, still wary of an attack if the twitching of his fingers was any indication. 

“Were you not saying something similar to this earlier this very evening?”

“I was,” she nodded. “And if we want to find our spitfire lady, we need Vane alive and you not imprisoned by your council.” James looked as though war was being waged behind those forget-me-not eyes. He thirsted for blood, for vengeance, to tear the world apart inch by inch until Abigail was again in his arms. It was the exact battle being fought in her own mind, though it took every ounce of self control to remain as calm as she was pretending to be. Abigail...Abigail was worth more than a filthy scuffle on the floor. “Please, James do not do this, not yet. We need a plan of action if we are to find her, use that brilliant mind of yours and then we can rip the realms to pieces until she’s home again.” He considered her a long time, and for a moment she truly feared that he might rush off with naught but his hook to protect him. And then he sighed, as though all the fight had gone from him and he nodded. Extracting his arm from her clutches, he wound it around her waist and drew her close to his side, shielding her. 

“Has the French Hen talked some sense into ye?” Grace snapped, hands on her hips.

“So it would seem.”

“Good. Now will one of ye great buffoons tell me just what in Saint Brigid’s name happened here?” With every word Grace’s voice grew louder until she shrieked like a banshee and not a few guests flinched and cowered. 

“That bastard drew his sword on me!” Vane snarled and tried to charge forward but the line of burly guards held him back. “Not a challenge uttered, not a duel set! He is a shameful excuse for an Englishman! Bad form indeed!” The arm around Rose tightened and she nuzzled her face into his coat to whisper gentle and calming words. Turning Hook’s own words against him, Charles Vane was the one picking a fight now. 

“Well? What do ye have to say to that accusation?” By now Anne had joined her lover’s side, a scowl on her thin face. And behind her came John Silver, his crutch clicking on the floor. 

“Abigail is missing,” James said bluntly though every word was spoken through clenched teeth. “I have good reason to believe that he had something to do with her disappearance.”

“The lady has gone missing?” Silver looked shocked at first, then angry. “Who would dare?”

“That cretin,” James continued and pointed with his hook to Vane, “flaunted his dislike of my ladies not an hour ago. And after she went to take some fresh air, he comes to me and has the care to warn me to ‘keep my bitches on a tight leash lest they wander off’.” Around them the captive audience gasped and gossiped loudly. Grace snapped at them to shut their lips lest they wanted her to sew them shut. As the volume finally lowered, James stood still as a statue with Rose held close. Only the witch herself knew that keeping her near and in his grip was all that was preventing him from ripping out the first throat that came too near. 

“And then?” their hostess prompted.

“It was then that Rose noticed Abigail had yet to return. We searched for her, all over Cragside, but could find no sign of her. And then we came to the ramparts,” he began to shake with the recent memory played out. “There were signs of a struggle, broken vases and the shadow of a person running away just as we came upon the scene!”

For half a moment an expression of shock and worry crossed Grace’s weathered face, but it was quickly pushed aside as she spun to face the accused. 

“Any here claim witness tae these words, supposedly spoken by Captain Vane?” For a few agonizing moments no one said a word. Were they too afraid to speak? And then a few people, Rose couldn’t recall their names but had met them during the long line of introduction, they actually stepped forward. 

“I heard him,” a woman clad in ochre said in a clear, steely voice. Her dark eyes were harsh as she looked at the disheveled Vane. There were gilded baubles in her braided hair, and golden bangles on her wrists, all jingled as she pointed one ebony finger in accusation. “He warned Captain Hook not to let his ladies out of his sight, or something untoward might befall them.” So eloquent, this woman. Were the situation more...well any better at all….Rose would have desired to know her. More party goers came forward, agreeing with the woman. “Until Lady Abigail is found, I say to the Council that Captain Vane is to be held under house arrest.”

“This is absurd!” The accused man shouted. 

“There be a missing woman and more than a few witnesses saying you foreshadowed her vanishing,” Grace said carefully. 

“I am a member of the ruling body as well, O’Malley,” Vane ground out. “And as we are one body short of a true vote, you cannot place me under house arrest.” Green eyes glared at the woman who had made the suggestion, Rose felt a tinge of worry for the brave lady. “And I refuse to make a plea for this trumped up charge!”

“You are on thin ice, man,” Silver lowly. “We all saw your first meeting with the Mistresses Hook.”

“And how would I have made a plan to kidnap of them when I had never laid eyes on them before tonight?”

“You’re a sly snake,” the Sea Cook tilted his head, leaning heavily on his crutch. “It wouldn’t surprise me if one of your men knocked the poor lady out while she was walking.”

“You’re all mad! That Irish tramp has bewitched you all!” Vane grabbed his wig from the floor, violently shaking the dust from it. “Kidnap a captain’s woman, in a castle full of people both revelers and guards? With next to no men at my service and only a single sabre for my defense? I’m an exemplary thief but that is too ambitious even for me!” 

“And yet half the people here are well into their cups,” Anne spoke up. Her slender frame was fairly vibrating with rage. “Well do I know what a man can do when the spirits are flowing and a woman is unawares.” She stalked across the circle of onlookers, winding her arm around Rose’s shoulders. “My sister pirate, Rose, shows great honor to you, Vane, asking her man to stay his hand rather than gut you where you stand. As it is, I hate to say that you are right, we cannot place you under house arrest while our sixth seat remains empty.” 

Vane’s women and his entourage made sounds of triumph. But one glare from Captain Bonny quickly shut them up again. 

“Instead I make this motion, to forbid you from leaving St. Erasmus until Lady Abigail is found - alive. Do I have a second to this?”

“Aye!” Grace answered. “Who votes with me?” 

“Aye!” Silver and Hook shouted.

“Opposed?” Grace looked to the little crowd of Vane’s followers. 

“Why bother? You’re all set against me anyway,” the accused hissed. His vile gaze found James and Rose, he took two heavy steps toward them, the room around them grew tense and quiet. The only noise was the singing of blades as they slid from their scabbards. “I don’t know where your bitch went, nor do I care.” He spat at their feet. “If I do ever see her again, she’ll regret making a fool of me this night.” And then he lead his men and whores away, trailed by guards in green. The door slammed with a reverberation that shook Rose to her very bones. 

***

When they came home, empty handed and heartbroken, it did not surprise Rose in the least that James stalked upstairs with nary a word to her. No doubt he would fall asleep at his desk, the floor strewn with empty bottles and a fair number of books thrown violently from their shelves. To be honest, she preferred he get his rage done with now, away from her. Rose longed to be held, to at least hear the pretense that things would turn out alright if only to give her something to strive for. As it was, she vanished into her gardens, her loyal familiar hurrying behind her. When she came to the out of the way corner she had been planting with rare night blooming flowers she finally fell to her knees. The wide skirts of her scarlet ball gown flared out around her and a shuddering breath echoed in the empty glen. King James curled up in her lap and purred, she stroked his soft black fur and began to sniffle. 

Her Abigail...her guiding star...was gone. Vanished, taken, the only trace left behind was a sheet of ice and shadow which may or may not have really existed. 

Tears began to flow down her cheeks, her lips quivered and it became difficult to breathe. 

In her past, the auburn haired sorceress had been used, beaten, emotionally abused and thrown away by those she thought cared about her. She had given her heart and had it broken so many times that by the time she met the blue eyed dream that was Abigail O’Rinn-Sheehy, she really started to believe that she was just unlovable. In the dark corners of her mind, she thought perhaps that love was just not something meant for her. And then she met a beautiful, aspiring actor and everything changed. There had been times in their past when they had snapped at one another, damaged feelings, fought and hurt each other deeply. Not all those arguments were over quickly, and some wounds took longer to heal, no couple was perfect after all. But Rose loved Abigail, and Abigail loved Rose. It took time to mend those hurts but they did so together and always came out the stronger for it. But now...now they were separated, torn apart...and Rose felt lost. 

Sobs began to fill the night as the world came crashing down around her. She cuddled her pet close and the feline let her hold him, as though he could sense his mistress’s pain.  
Could there have been something she might have done to protect her better? Had she only gone with her, not wasted time dancing, perhaps she might have been able to stop whatever had happened. What kind of lover was she, if she allowed those who held her heart to be hurt? She was angry with whoever had done this, she was angry at herself for allowing it to happen in the first place. It might have been prevented, if only Rose had been paying attention, and she hated herself for it. Until James, Abigail had been the single greatest thing to ever come into her life. They fit so completely well together, friends at first while at university and before Rose knew it she had fallen head over heels in love with the younger woman. Though her heart was open to new loves, and her body was hers to share, Rose adored her Abigail...already she missed her. Her star...was she scared? Was she alone and worried for her lovers too? The elder witch’s hands began to tremble, her breathing becoming erratic. 

A tormented scream rang out through the moonlit garden as Rose wailed her heartache. She fell to the ground in a sobbing heap, her cat nudging her tear drenched cheek.

There was no happiness in her world without both her lovers safe at her side. As she sobbed, Rose realized how none of the arguments, snapped words or painful mistakes they had encountered during their relationship could equal the agony she felt now. Was she safe? Was she hurting? Did she miss Rose as much as Rose yearned for her? King James meowed softly, pawing at her cheek until her watery eyes looked up. He darted off to play in the vines which were growing unnaturally fast. Rose looked around and gaped. Around her, the night blooming flowers slowly emerged from their buds. New sprouts shot up as her tears watered the soil, and the garden she had lovingly and painstakingly made for her beloved began to come to life.

“What…?” Wiping the tears from her eyes, she sat up and looked around. This garden would not have been done for weeks, and yet it was growing to its full glory right before her eyes. Was this some sign, some hint from the powers that brought them to the Never Sea in the first place? As an arbor of cyrus blossomed before her, Rose fought to keep her control. 

“You’re out there,” she whispered to herself. Abigail was alive and waiting for her, somehow she knew this, deep in her bones. “I’ll find you, I promise!” she shouted to the inky black sky studded with mocking twinkling stars. She lifted herself up, determined not to torment herself any more than she already had. Rose was nothing if not determined. Though still filled with sorrow, still ready to break into a thousand little pieces at any moment, she knew she had to keep going. They had been through so much together, had fought for one another, held each other as they cried and supported one another in times of great duress and pain. She would fight for her beloved, with tooth and nail and every ounce of magic in her body and nothing in this world or any other was going to stand in her way. 

As Rose picked up her cat, holding him close and pacing her garden deep in thought, a far less composed sight was to be found high in the northeast tower of the Barony. Just as the nature witch had predicted, Hook had already fallen in the bottle in his despair. 

He had thrown himself onto the pale blue and gold couch that sat before Abigail’s modest fireplace, eyes already glass from the bottle he had swiped from his office when he had stormed through the house to find the room that belonged to his lost lady. He could smell her perfume on the cushions, see the embroidery project she had laid down on the pillow when Rose had fluttered into the room to remind Abigail to get dressed for the party. Black branches twisted across the blue fabric stretched across the hoop and Abigail had just begun stitching in snowflakes gentle falling among the twigs. He ran his fingers over the neat stitches, remembering how delicate and careful her hands had been as he watched her bring beautiful images to life with nothing but thread. 

He should be angry, livid, still vibrating with rage that she had been taken. And he had been, the entire journey back to Black Barony had been filled with seething silence, his hook thirsting for blood to avenge his lady. He had exploded from the carriage and stormed through the house. But when he had wrenched open the door to her blue drawing room, the wrath had vanished almost entirely. He was left tired, exhausted, despondent, filled with despair. He had sank onto her plush, sky blue couch, bottle by his feet, and cradled his head in his hand. There was nothing else he could do. He had no idea where to start looking for her. He was tempted to tear Vane’s house apart, to raze it to the ground, leaving no stone unturned until he found her. But he was forbidden from such things by the ruling of the Council. And what if she wasn’t there? What if Vane had spirited her away somewhere else?

Spirited away…

Vane was the obvious and mundane solution, the clear culprit. But there was another part of James that whispered of magic. The ice and scattered shadows on the ramparts where they thought Abigail had last stood, what if they were evidence of magic? She was a witch, both of his ladies were powerful witches. But they were not all-powerful or undefeatable. What if another witch, another magical being, had overpowered her and taken Abigail away? What if the shadow they had seen was working for whoever had taken her and they had startled it from covering up the evidence? What was that human shadow?

_Pan._

His eyes burst into a fiery red colour, rage once more sparking in his breast. His ladies had told him of how the brat had lost his shadow in the Darling’s house, how he had returned to claim it and the Wendy. The Boy could send his shadow away from his body, he had sent the shade back to cover his tracks while he made off with the Hook’s woman. 

The last time Pan had taken one of his ladies, Rose had been terribly wounded. He would not allow the same to happen to Abigail. He would learn from his errors. He would get his starlit storm lady back. No one could take his treasures from him and get away with it. Not after he had finally learned what true, beautiful happiness was. He would never give that up.

He lurched to his feet, swaying slightly as the brandy numbed his body, and sucked in a deep breath.

“PAN!” He bellowed, throwing his head back, “I’ll gut you for this! I’ll hunt you down and tear you to shreds! I will find her! I will take her back! I swear to Hell!”

Later, much later, that night, Rose found her captain nearly passed out from drink before the fireplace in the blue drawing room. By now she had removed her heavy ball gown, her maids taking it to be cleaned in the morning, and donned a thin silk chemise and a dusky pink dressing gown. Her bare feet were silent as she moved across the floor. Hook never even raised his head when she kneeled at his side. Still, his hand came to rest atop her head, running through her loose hair over and over again. 

“Please come to bed, James,” she pleaded softly. “I need you there.”

“It’s too quiet,” he whispered hoarsely. “Too empty.” 

Tears filled her eyes once more, seeing her beloved Hook so broken. Despite her resolve to find their Abigail and bring her home, Rose’s heart was still as fragile as glass in this moment. Was it selfish of her to want him to hold her? Her hands reached out, gripping his knee and laying her head in his lap. 

“It’s empty without her,” she whispered. “And I want her back…...but please don’t pull away from me now. Not when we need each other the most.” 

“It’s wrong,” he croaked, “Wrong and sinful to take pleasure, to be happy when she is not with us.” Watery hazel eyes looked up at him through his matted curls, her sorrowful face lit by the dim fire.

“There’s no pleasure, or happiness just now, not when our beloved is missing,” her words were careful yet her voice cracked a little even so. Her fingers gripped his thigh a little tighter, as though she feared he might vanish from her too. “But I cannot be without you right now, and I’m sorry if that sounds selfish, but please don’t leave me alone tonight….and don’t let yourself be alone either.” 

“It is no less than I deserve,” he said, his voice rasping over the words, “Villain, despicable, reprehensible as I am. I let her slip through my fingers, I deserve nothing more from the world. I deserve this sorrow and despair and loneliness. Villains do not have happily ever afters. And I never will.” Rose drew back a little, gripping his face in both her shaking hands. She lifted his face to be even with hers, pressing a harsh kiss to his lips. 

“Do not go into that darkness, again. I’m here, I’m here,” she begged. “We’ll find Abigail, we’ll start first thing tomorrow. But please don’t leave me behind, I need you now...I can’t lose her and then you in a single night.” 

“We’ve already lost.”

Her hands delved into his hair, pulling tight enough to make him wince. 

“No we’ve not! This is the drink talking and I won’t lose both the loves of my life within a few hours. You’re coming to bed if I have to drag you there myself.” 

He seized her wrists and shoved her away, “Leave me here, damn it! Go to bed and curl up with your thrice-damned cat! Let me drink, let me grieve, leave me alone!” 

Rose stumbled back, her leg catching on a table and causing her to fall to the floor. The iron fireplace tools that were placed against the fine marble clanged and toppled on her. A pained whimper escaped her lips as the sharp edge of the poker shredded her gown and cut her forearm. She gripped her wound, clutching her arm to her breast and glared up at her lover.

“I will not leave you alone when you’re half mad with sorrow and drink!” 

“Get out!” he roared, lurching to his feet, the bottle gripped tightly in his hand, “Go away! Leave me!”

Furious, bleeding, with fire in her eyes, Rose stood silently. There was a coldness to her that he had never really been seen before. She stalked up to her rampaging lover, shoved him back to his seat and in his stupor she stole the bottle from his weakened hands. And threw it into the fire. The little explosion lit the room in an infernal glow, the scarlet magic crackling at her fingertips lending an eeriness to her usually soft and loving self. 

“I gave you a chance,” she said lowly as she walked around him. She paused in the doorway which lead to their bedroom, letting her frightened pet run inside. 

He stood, staring down into the fireplace where the remnants of the alcohol were burning away among the shattered glass. And it was only when the door to their bedroom had snapped shut behind Rose that he allowed himself to crumple to the floor. He blamed the drink, it was the fault of the rum, but he was leaking. Tears dripped from his eyes and he pressed his face to the rug spread across the dark wood floor, letting no one hear or bear witness to his sorrow and pain. 

On the other side of the door, Rose was clutching her cat, leaning against the door and weeping. What had she done? Broken things and actually left James behind in his agony. But she was hurting too, she just wanted to be with him, but he was too far gone right now to even hear her. On shaking feet, she stood, and made a feeble attempt to reach the massive bed. The silks were wet from her tears in seconds, even as her dear pet nuzzled and purred as he curled up next to her. Holding the little fellow close, Rose cried herself to sleep.

Morning dawned all too soon. The pale light of the sun seeped through drapes, stinging Rose’s eye and rousing her from her blissfully dreamless slumber. She didn’t want to leave the little sanctuary of her mind where peace frolicked just within her reach. As soon as her mind came to consciousness, she felt the pain of waking in a world where she woke alone in a large and empty bed. The soft purring of her kitten only eased her sorrow a little, and for a time she just lay there enveloped in the blankets and petting him. She knew that she had to begin the difficult work of finding her missing loved one, and soon. Her eyes were still sore from weeping, her head ached and her body felt heavy and listless. Slowly, she noticed the sting of her wound. That would need cleaned and dressed, a voice in the back of her mind said. It might get infected, but to the dismay of her better judgement, she found that she really didn’t care. The telltale signs of a long and lasting bout of depression were glaring at her as bright as the morning sun. It was an old battle, one she had fought for years, pushing back her inner demons lest they overwhelm her. This time….this time she wasn’t sure she had the strength to fight them. The situation seemed to hopeless, where was she even to start? 

She left the bed, carrying King James in her arms, telling herself that she had to find breakfast. If she went about her day, sad, lonely and worried there was the very likely chance that she would forget to eat at all. It had had happened before, in years past, when her world was nothing but shades of gray. But there was too much at stake now, she had to care for herself if she was to care for those she loved. And so she left the bedchamber, creeping into the the blue drawing room. The place was silent. Not eager for a repetition of last night, Rose searched for Hook with every little step. 

And found him crumpled on the floor before the fireplace, a bottle lay at his side. 

As much as she yearned to make him something to ease his hangover, she knew he wouldn’t accept it. He wouldn’t accept anything from her right now. He needed his time to grieve, and space to find himself without their beloved. Ever so gently, as not to wake him, she pushed a soft cushion under his head. It was the very least she could do and he wouldn’t rightly remember it hadn’t been there the previous night anyway. With her little gesture of caring done, the witch sighed with a heavy heart. Her sharp tongued lady, and her rakish captain, so lost they were. She had to find them, find some way to bring them together again, and it seemed as though she would have to do so by herself. So Rose walked around him, casting sad eyes at his weary form, and made her way to the kitchens.

When James woke, the first thing he noticed was pain. His head felt as though there was a spear prodding the inside of his skull. But as he was no immortal, and the onslaught on his brain could only be of earthly means, he knew it must be the usual aftermath of drink. But this was far worse a hangover than he was used to, it pounded like a hammer and the minimal sunlight pierced his eyes until tears threatened to fall. Why had he drank so much? It was all a blur, all the events from the night before merged into one terrible smear of color and sound upon his memory. He finally noticed he was not in his bed, but on the floor, with a pillow under his head. Why was he sleeping on the floor? Surely he should have woken in a nest of silk and the embrace of his mistresses…

But he couldn’t. He remembered that now. 

How could he sleep peacefully when one of his precious sorceresses had been taken hostage? 

His sorceresses...he could not be without them. Looking around, he could see through the double doors to their bedchamber and found it empty. He called out, no one answered. On unsteady feet he arose, barely noticing the cluttered mess of the fireplace tools and staggered from the drawing room into their private chamber. Not even their feline was to be found, he hurried to the next room, his library and study but that was as silent as a tomb. His hand began to shake, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. Where was his Rose? From the library he rushed into the private dining room, the doors echoed as they hit the walls upon his entering. No one, not even a servant to be seen. His shoes fell heavily on the floor, every step beat in tandem with his aching heart. Where was she? 

He had not awoken without his women in so long...he could not bear to have them away from him. He could not easily sleep without them by his side. Now he woke alone, on the floor, cold, and utterly devoid of their gentle presence. 

Abigail was lost, gone in a swirl of ice and frost. Taken by his most hated enemy, no doubt. He would take her back, no matter how much blood he had to spill to do so. And once he did she would never leave his sight again. 

All he had left was Rose, but where was she? 

Storming through the portrait gallery, the terror began to seep into his veins. Would he find another sheet of ice at some distant peak, his lady vanished? He almost stumbled down the stairs, cursing his weakness for the drink which robbed him of his senses. Through the whole of the ground floor he tore, desperation taking its formidable hold on him. From the formal dining room to the golden drawing room where his Rose had left her plans for extending the manor’s vegetable gardens strewn all over. 

Where the hell was everyone?

He was just about to leave the gilded dining room, ready to make for the gardens, when a young kitchen maid appeared from a hidden door in the wall. 

“You, girl!” He bellowed and his own voice resounded with a sharp sting of pain to his temples. The maid jumped in alarm, her arms clutching at the tray she almost dropped. 

“Master Hook!” The cutlery shook, a bowl of porridge and a small plate of buttered toast nearly toppled to the floor. 

“Where is your Mistress?” he demanded.

“Which-which one?” the girl stuttered. 

“The only one who came home last night, daft git! Where is she?” He stalked towards the shaking maid, who took a step back with a white faced expression of fear. 

“L-lady Rose is-is in the kitchen! She ordered this b-brought to your room!”

Not waiting for another word, uncaring of the platter of food, he shot around the quivering serving girl and made for the narrow servant’s stairs. He wasn’t sure why he was going there, lest of all why his mind screamed at him to find the kitchens as quickly as he could. If Rose was there as the serving girl said, than surely he had no need to see her for himself. That was the remains of his logic talking, whispering from a distant corner of his mind. Logic had no place with him just now, he was propelled by fear, a fear of being alone again. The door to the kitchen had been left open, the sounds of crockery clinking, the pop of the fire and the idle chatter of women reached his ears. 

“That’s a rather nasty cut, Mistress,” he heard Gladys, the head housekeeper say. 

“It’s not too deep, thank goodness. I don’t think I would be able to handle stitches,” the voice of Rose replied. She was wounded? How had she been hurt? His head was assaulted with a sharp pang, as though it hurt to try and remember last night. Something had happened, but what? Truly he was far gone if he had blacked out parts of the evening. 

“What are you making there?”

“A poultice for my arm. White sage, yarrow, and comfrey. Perhaps a little honey too, keep the air out until the flesh mends.” It sounded as though she were rummaging through a cabinet now. Did he dare to step in? What would he even say to her? 

“And you say you slipped in the drawing room? What on earth did you catch yourself on, Mistress?” Gladys was a kind and motherly woman, her concern was clear in her lilting voice. Rose however did not answer, at least not very quickly. For a few excruciating moments all that could be heard was the grinding of mortar and pestle, and the delicate breaking of dried leaves. Why did she not answer? 

“I fell into the fireplace tools, one of them cut me.”

“Goodness gracious!”

“No need to worry about me, Gladys,” her sweet voice was strained. “It’s really not so bad, and really...silver lining and all I can practice healing on myself.” 

The fireplace? 

He had woken before that mantle, and now that he thought about it, the shovel, poker and bellows were still scattered across the floor. 

“Gladys, can you check on Miriam for me? I should have brought that tray up myself…”

“I’ll see to the girl, Mistress, the poor thing looked petrified when I gave her your orders. Can’t say I fully blame her though, I know how the Master can be in the mornings, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh no need to worry about me in that regard. Just...make sure she doesn’t think I’m punishing her or something. I’m afraid he’s in a bad way….”

“We all are, Mistress, we miss her Ladyship too.” A slight pause, he barely noticed as his head truly began to pang and images from the night before at last began to emerge from the fog of his mind. “I’ll take the back stairs and be back soon.” In the distance he heard a door click, the iron latch lifting then slamming down again. And then silence. There was so much silence in his house now, and he hated it. 

Rose seemed to go still in the kitchen. No singing as she worked, no clicking noises from her knives on cutting boards. There wasn’t even the scraping of the chair legs against the stone floor. She was just so very still. 

James turned the corner, and met the startled gaze of his auburn haired lady. 

“You’re awake,” her voice was surprised, but tired and lacking of its musical luster. 

Keen as his eyes were, he noticed the bandage, slightly red with blood, on her right forearm.

“You’re injured.”

She looked curiously at the wound, then back at him. 

“Don’t you remember last night?”

His head hurt once more at the mention of that terrible evening. 

“I overheard you say that you fell and cut yourself on the fireplace irons,” he walked more fully into the room and the smell of baking bread hit him hard. His stomach growled painfully and Rose instantly set into action. As he took a seat at the old, pock-marked table, a miniscule hiss drew his attention to his left. Felis catus Rex was apparently none too keen on sharing his own breakfast, guarding his pile of minced meat like a pirate guards his treasure. “I have no interest in your scraps, little beast.”

Rose pet the kitten on his head as she passed by and the creature seemed appeased by the attention. She took a seat across from him and placed a platter of boiled eggs, unbuttered toasts, porridge and weak tea. Hook eyed it with disdain.

“You’re hungover, eat what I give you,” her words were clipped and full of unfamiliar ire. He made to retort but she held up one hand to silence him. “I take it you blacked out and can’t remember our….disagreement?” 

“Disagreement?”

“We had a fight, you pushed me, and I tripped into the mantle.”

Again he looked at her wounded arm, eyes going wide as at last the fog cleared and the memories came crashing down on him like a rogue wave. 

“You were in pain, drunk, and I shouldn’t have pushed you so far like I did,” he could hear her words but their meaning was nearly lost on him. 

“Apologize not for your actions…..” he stared at his plate and felt a burning sensation at his eyes. “You did nothing wrong….tis I who acted the fiend…”

“James….we simply need to talk this out-”

“I need to pray,” he said abruptly and leapt to his feet. Rose looked up at him in confusion. 

“Pray?” But he was already making for the door. 

“I’ll be in the chapel, see that I will not be disturbed.” 

When he reached the grotto chapel beneath the house, he fell to his knees. The candles around the base of the statue of the Blessed Mother bathed the white marble in beautiful light. Her pure eyes looked to Heaven, her white hands outstretched. Hanging from one of her carved hands was an old rosary. Reaching up with trembling hands, he pressed his mother’s rosary to his lips and his villainous heart turned to prayer.

***

Their lives seemed dull and grey without their stormy lover. Rose snorted at the analogy as she poured milk for her cat. King James sipped his supper, his big eyes looked soulfully around the room. He had slept on Abigail’s side of the bed for two nights straight, clearly missing his vanished owner. They had not been wholly alone however, a new presence had appeared the night Abigail had gone missing. Rose had been walking with the kitten in her arms around the manor’s grounds when she decided to pay some attention to the neglected front lawn. Meaning to choose placement for new trees, she had nearly trampled John Silver. The burly, flamed haired man had camped on the grass, and there remained as a sentinel. She had tried to talk him into a guest room but he wouldn’t have it. Silver also told Hook, after Rose had lured him outside with the threat of hiding the key to the wine cellar, that a friend had offered to search the nearby islands for them. Captain Hawkins it seemed was a rather kind hearted sort of pirate, to do the favor for them. Still, the days passed slowly and dismally. Word reached them on the third morning of a meeting to be held, at their own home, to formulate a proper plan of action. All this ran through Rose’s mind as she kneeled on the Persian rug and stroked the soft fur of her four legged companion. Three members of the Council were due to visit them today, she wanted to ensure her beloved pet was well cared for as she might be away for a few hours to speak with them. The maids could have easily taken care of the little feline, but Rose would not let anyone attend her pet but herself anyway. And she needed the company. 

Grace O’Malley on the warpath was a frightening sight. James seemed rather used to the screeching like one of the Furies, the breaking of vases and the swinging of many deadly looking blades. Rose kept herself well out of the range of said blades and was very glad not to know any Gaelic at the moment. 

“If I could have strung up that smirking prat from one my gibbets I would have!” 

“Gracie, we all know that wasn’t an option,” Anne tried to placate her lover. “No evidence means no angry mob. As attractive as that might have been.”

“Damn right it would be!” 

A poor side table took a terrible beating. 

“The most we can do now is start sending out spies, have them infiltrate the lower docks. All the dregs take their business there, someone might know something.” Captain Bonny began to pace. Her blond hair was loose, lit by the gleaming sun filtering through the open windows. She moved with a feline like grace, a striking figure with intent clear on her golden face. “Anyone could have hired a kidnapper down there, hell I’ve done it myself more than once.”

“Other than the jackanape, who else might be wantin’ tae hurt ye, James?” Grace pressed. “Hurt a man by hurtin’ his woman, it’s an old and dirty trick.” 

Beside him, Rose tensed. Oh she knew that her beloved captain had a theory, she had heard him screaming it the night before. Though she supposed it could make sense, she wondered how the Boy even knew where they were. But, it was all the lead they had.

“There is one who would be so bold as to steal my Abigail right from under my nose,” Hook said darkly. “The same one who took my hand.”

“The fairy child?”

“That beast is no fairy,” his words were more of a growl. “God only knows what he might be, but he lives to torment me. To take one of my women whilst we attend a party? He and his motley band have already shot Rose, they must have been fairly salivating for the chance to hurt Abigail.” 

“But Pan has no idea that we’re even here,” Rose said. She hid her exasperation well, but the last few days had been nothing but Pan this, and Pan that. James swore the shadow they saw at O’Malley’s must have been the boy’s. But it might have, it might have been only a trick of the light. They had no evidence either way, and her researcher’s mind was desperate for a source, a lead, anything more substantial than a single shadow. “He’s never been sighted on this island, has he? And how would he have created that ice we saw on the parapet?”

“And what theory would you propose in his place?” James hissed. Plumes of sweet smoke hovered around his dark head, the grey clouds only bringing attention to the pale refraction of red in his narrowed eyes. A pile of cigar nubs overflowed the silver and crystal ashtray, James had been chain smoking each and every day their Abigail was gone. 

“Nothing,” she admitted without an ounce of defeat in her voice. “Because we just don’t know enough yet. What we need is a pair of eyes and ears to scope out any place on Erasmus where talk of Abigail might turn up.”

“You need a spy, that’s what,” Silver said from the the lounge where his good leg was propped up on a coffee table. 

“And do you know any decent spies, John?” Hook rolled his eyes. 

As one, Captains Silver, O’Malley and Bonny turned, in an almost rehearsed fashion, to stare at the silent figure whittling in the corner.

Chase Strand looked up like a startled meerkat with the sudden silence. 

“You cannot be serious,” James said drolly. 

“Ye’ve been gone for a long time, Jamie,” Grace rolled her steel grey eyes. “Chase has been workin’ for me for ages. I hired the gangly thing long after ye had left for Never Land and he’s been following ye since ye stepped foot back here.”

“You had me followed?”

But no one was caring much for Hook’s wounded pride. Chase looked halfway pleased to be the center of attention and half prepared to sprint for the door. Rose snatched a tumbler of scotch from the sideboard, downed in and set her narrowed gaze on the pick pocket. 

“You can be our eyes and ears? In places James would be too obvious and I just cannot safely go?”

“Begging your pardon, Mistress Rose,” the blond thief grinned as he put away his knife with a flourish. “But I highly doubt there’s a place where you would be unsafe, men would painfully regret troubling you.”

“Oh for Lucifer’s sake.”

“Your flattery is appreciated,” Rose continued, again ignoring her lover’s grousing. “But you can? Be our spy and report back the moment you get the first hint about Abigail’s whereabouts?”

“Madame, it would be my honor and pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Felis catus_ \- Latin name for "cat"  
>  _Rex_ \- Latin word for "king"


	15. Cold, Alone, Done For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our sincerest of apologies for the unexpected hiatus. We are both busy with classes and life etc but we hope to return to at least semi-regular postings of chapters once we get our shit together.
> 
> TW: mental institutions

It was raining. 

It was night, and balmy. Her gown stuck to her skin, heavy and clinging. 

The world spun as she tried to sit up. She felt sick, and nauseous, it took her a long time even to rise to her knees. A light, nearly blinding in its brightness, shone down from above. 

Abigail held a hand over her eyes, looking around with bleary vision.

“Rose?”

No one answered, and yet there were voices somewhere in the distance. Her ears had been ringing, she had not even noticed until her own voice cut through the white noise. 

“James?”

Her voice cracked, as though sore from a cold, or from screaming too much. Had she been screaming? She thought she might have when she….when she fell. That’s right, she had seen a...something, a shadow...and then it was so cold. Cold like when she froze their bedchamber. After that...she fell over the side of the parapet, towards the crashing waves and rocks below. Yes she recalled now, she had screamed for help, and then everything went black.

Abigail struggled to her feet, grabbing hold of whatever was nearest. Her fine slippers held no purchase on the smooth ground, and she almost fell several times. Each of her limbs was weak, buzzing with the barest jolts of magic as it drained from her. Why was her magic so weak? Looking down at her shaking hands, Abigail felt the air rush out of her lungs. A table stood before her, a wrought iron table. It was this table which she had grasped to haul herself to her feet, and as she leaned on it even more now to prevent another fall, she wished it gone from her sight. Wide blue eyes, at last able to see even despite the pouring rain, took everything around her. 

And a keening wail was ripped from her lips. 

The garden, she was in their garden, the one they left behind. The blazing light was a street lamp in the alley, right behind the chain link fence and little concrete pad where her car was still parked. 

“No, no, no,” Abigail bit her lip so hard it bled and tripped on her gown as she hurried to the back door of the townhouse. Her fingers were cold despite the late summer heat, and they barely worked as she tore the welcome map up and tossed it aside, searching in the semi darkness for the key that was hidden under it. 

She needed her books, her scrying tools, her crystals….anything and everything. She had to get back...she had to go home. 

The door swung open, she barely managed to shut it behind her huge, rain soaked, skirts. Abigail reached for the light switch, having trouble seeing in the dark and not quite remembering where the device was. She was nearly blinded when the electric lights flared to life, their fluorescent glare unfamiliar and stark. Rushing through the kitchen, nearly slipping in her delicate slippers, her breathing harsh and harried. 

It had been some time she since had last seen this place, she had never thought to see it again. Her memory was still sharp however, despite her terrified and confused state. Things were not as they had left them….the living room was different. She tore through boxes of books, she had not packed up anything before...before leaving. A lamp was turned on, more electric light which hurt her eyes. Someone had been here, organizing their things. Family? Had there been a search for them? But she didn’t want to think about those she had left behind, it was terrible to say but it was true. For the first time in her life she had been indescribably happy and then suddenly in the blink of an eye it was all gone. This world, this mundane world, it wasn’t her home. Her hands ripped cardboard boxes to pieces as she searched every book on magic and the occult she could find. 

“Have to go home, have to go home,” she repeated the words over and over like a mantra. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted Rose. She wanted James. She wanted to curl up in her huge canopy bed with her kitten and her lovers nearby. Indigo skirts flared out as she fell to her knees, knocking over a table laden with what looked like missing person flyers. Dream interpretation, no that book was useless. Herbology. Abigail almost sobbed. Candle magic. That might work! She stowed it safely next to her and kept searching, desperate and shaking. Nothing else seemed even a little relevant. She read through each chapter, madly flipping pages and combining rituals in her mind. Recreate the lunar spell and she could go home. All she needed now were the right tools. Grabbing her single book, she tried to open the old steamer trunk which held all the candles and altar supplies. But it was locked. She shrieked in agony and defiance, looking for the rack of keys on the wall by the door. They were gone. Another scream, this time in anger, echoed in the empty house. Abigail looked around wildly, and set her eyes on a small dish, full of small change and bills she and Rose had kept handy for small emergencies. Swiftly pocketing the cash, she throw open the front door and let it slam behind her against the old plaster wall. 

There was a new age shop two blocks down. Go in, buy the candles she needed, a lighter and go back. People stared at her as she rushed down the street. Her slippers hurt, they were not meant to run in, so she kicked them off and cared not for how the concrete ripped her delicate silk stockings and tore at her feet. There! The light of a blazing Open sign in the window of a basement shop, the window full of crystals and statues. A little bell rang as she burst inside. No one else was there save for a cashier, a young man with bright green hair. 

“Are you okay, miss?” He sounded so concerned, and stood quickly. Did she really look so terrible? It mattered not, she had a mission, she couldn’t delay. Even in a magic shop, the world here felt dull and dank, and not just from the rain. There wasn’t any enchantment here, not like the Never Sea. And she hated every second she spent here, so alone. 

“I need a yellow candle, and a purple one. Travel and spirit, I need them.” 

“What? You look sick, miss, sit down, you’re soaked and-”

“Don’t patronize me!” Her eyes were wild, “Where are your books on portals? I need to open a portal so I can get back so just tell me where I can find what I need!”

The man behind the counter backed up a little, hands held out in what he might have thought was a calming gesture. 

“Please, let’s take it easy, maybe there’s someone I could call for you.”

“The only people I need to talk to aren’t here! I’ll find the books myself!” Abigail stomped through the store, nearly knocking over tables of quartz and a burning censer as she passed. Her eyes were wild as she scanned the shelves, all the mass produced, glossy covers of ‘fairy magic’ and ‘teen love spells’ only drew her anger closer to the surface. “Damn, damn damn!” Nothing, nothing at all so far. She sped down the next aisle. It never occurred to her that the cashier had gone quiet. A book on spirit portals, something about hauntings caught her eye. It might work, she ripped it from the shelf and quickly flipped through it. Nothing but some idiotic ghost hunter with too much hair gel prattling on and on about his escapades. The book was tossed to the floor and she continued her frantic search. 

Her nerves were frayed and her body just starting to tire from it all when she heard a strange, shrieking sound. Abigail froze. Not recognizing the sound at first, she hide behind a brick column. The flashing red and blue lights blazed through the display window. 

Police. 

Looking around, she saw the cashier was gone. The front door was open ever so slightly, someone was pacing on the sidewalk. 

He had called the police. For her. To take her away. 

Just as her mind fully comprehended the fact, the door was opened, and two officers walked down the short flight of three steps and entered the shop. Frantically, she looked for an exit, there was one in the far back of the store, with its green sign glowing like a beacon, back where the storage should be. But she would have to rush down the main aisle to get there, they would be able to catch her. What could she do?

“Miss, we’d like to have a word,” the female officer said. She was tall, dark skinned, with a pretty face. But her hand was on her taser, and Abigail shifted back. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“We just need to talk a little, just walk slowly and calmly to the door and we’ll figure all this out.” 

The male officer paused, looking at her with a perplexed expression. 

“Thompson, I know her face,” he said to his partner lowly. “There’s a poster down on the corner here, by Maple and Greene. Missing person. What’s she wearing?”

Abigail started to cry. She tried to summon her magic, the taser making her think of her lightening. But nothing came. Her blood didn’t sing with enchantment, her hands shook with a cold which did not embrace her as it did back home. She was powerless, alone, disgustingly vulnerable and they were going to take her away.

Before her, the officer called into their walkie talkies, asking for an ambulance and calling in her missing person’s ad. 

She didn’t fight them when they escorted her out. How could she? It’s not as though she could deflect the electricity of the taser, or turn the rain against them. Maybe she could play nice, she was an actor, she could maybe fool them into letting her go sooner rather than later. Maybe once she was free she could go back to finding a way home…

At least they did not put her in an interrogation room. Not one of those cold, stark, cinder block rooms that were always on crime shows. No, she got a nice cozy space with a cushioned seat, some clean clothes and a blanket. There was a nurse just outside, telling Officer Leslie Thompson what sort of medicine she would need, how much rest they needed to give her. They all pitied her. And she hated it. She wasn’t to be pitied, she was a witch, she was a Lady, they didn’t know what she had been through so there was no way on the gods’ green earth they could help. 

Someone had set a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of her. She ignored it. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, her hair slowly dripping dry as she sat curled on the chair, making herself as small as possible. 

The door opened. A man with brown skin entered and sat across from her on the couch. 

“Miss Ó Rinn-Sheehy,” he said kindly, “Do you know where you are?”

She nodded miserably. Oh yes, she knew where she was.

“Do you know how long you’ve been missing?”

She hesitated and shook her head.

“Miss Ó Rinn-Sheehy, I’m Detective Sanchez. I’m the head detective for your missing persons case.” He smiled warmly at her, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “I’m very happy we found you. I was starting to think we never would. Would you mind telling me where you were?”

She shook her head, pressing her lips together. She couldn’t tell him, he wouldn’t believe her.

“Okay, well, would you like to tell me how you got back?”

Tears burned her eyes and she shook her head violently. 

“Okay, that’s perfectly okay. You must have been through a lot.” He shifted in his chair, leaning closer, “Can you tell us who it was that took you?”

She trembled, remembering blue eyes and black curls. A lean body and a hook for a hand. Her heart broke at the memories and she sobbed, breaking down and covering her face with her hands. She missed him so much. She missed Rose so much. 

The detective moved to kneel by the chair, touching her shoulder sympathetically, completely misunderstanding.

“Don’t worry, Abigail. Whoever took you won’t be able to find you. You’ll never see them again, okay? You’re safe.”

She only sobbed harder, shaking her head. 

Detective Sanchez got to his feet, “I’m going to call someone who will be able to help you, okay? Officer Thompson will be just outside the door if you want something.”

The door swung shut behind him and Abigail curled into herself, cradling her head in her arms. 

She managed to quiet herself, wiping away her tears. Her hair was mostly dry, hanging in limp curls about her face. She started when gentle hands began combing through the strands, looking up into the kind face of Officer Thompson. Her hand wasn’t on her taser anymore, instead her fingers were softly twisting Abigail’s thick hair into a braid to keep it out of her face. Abigail remembered when Rose would do the same thing when the actor was poring over scripts to learn her lines and she bit her lip to stop a fresh wave of tears. 

“You haven’t touched your coffee,” Thompson said as her dark fingers twisted the hair-tie around the end of the sable braid. “Can I get you something else?”

“Tea,” Abigail whispered, pulling the braid over her shoulders, “Please.”

“Of course,” Thompson said, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly, “I’ll be right back.”

She heard Thompson’s voice outside, talking to what sounded like Detective Sanchez. She couldn’t hear what they said and she didn’t care. Time passed. Maybe hours, maybe mere moments. Abigail did not notice. There wasn’t a clock in the room, and if there were she was not sure she would be able to stand the ticking. They didn’t have any ticking clock back home, James….James couldn’t stand the sound. A few tears trailed down her cheeks, she quickly wiped them away. No, she did not want anyone to see her cry. Her sadness was her own, she only shared her vulnerability with a precious few. The door opened, and Officer Thompson came back in with a cup of steaming tea. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted any sugar, so I brought some packets if you wanted to add it yourself,” she said softly and set the cup and sweets down. 

“....Thank you,” Abigail said and ripped open one paper package and poured the sugar into her tea. Just one, Rose always took two and cream. Stay as far away from thoughts of them as possible, she told herself. Tarry too long on those she mourned the absence of and she would fall apart. Tell the police what they wanted to hear, get back to the townhouse, and find a way back as quickly as possible. Do not fall part, do not fall apart. 

“We’ll be notifying your next of kin with the good news,” Leslie Thompson told her as the policewoman took the chair across from her. 

Abigail stared at her. Who did she have listed for that?

“You had Ms. Rose Belchiere as your second contact, in case the first could not be found,” a sad expression crossed her kind face. “We still haven’t been able to find your girlfriend, Abigail. But we’re trying.” Abigail did not answer and just sipped her tea, looking down at the table. No, they wouldn’t be able to find her, not here. “I’m so sorry you’re hurting, we’ll do our best to bring you two together again.”

“I...you’re very kind,” it was all she could manage and so she hid her lips with her cup. The tea was very hot, it burned her tongue but she didn’t care. 

“Was….” Thompson hesitated, “Was she taken with you? Were you in the same place?”

Abigail nodded before she could stop herself. 

The officer looked concerned, alert, leaning forward and taking one of her hand in her own. 

“I want to help you, I’ve seen so many women taken from their homes and loved ones. You miss her.”

Of course she missed her! Abigail started to cry again despite her former resolve. 

“No one here can help me…” she sobbed. Thompson moved to kneel beside her, and Abigail let the woman place an arm around her shoulders. It felt good to be touched, to be comforted. She was so alone, any kind of kind word or gesture was enough to bring more tears to her eyes. 

“We can help you,” the officer soothed her. “Tell me about her, how was she when you saw her last. Tell me about the place she was in. I bet she’s very pretty.”

“She’s beautiful,” she sniffed. 

“Her aunt rented her townhouse to you, she’s been caring for the place off and on since you two went missing. It’s a lovely house, lots of books. You two seem to have a nice life together.”

“Rose is a historian...and she loves romance novels. I have all the horror novels, the cookbooks, and dramas.”

“You’re an actor and receptionist part time, yes? You must have missed being on the stage.” 

“I haven’t acted in months…” She hadn’t thought of that at all, and it hurt to realize all her hard work was for naught. 

“Where were you all that time? Was Rose with you? I know you must be worried about her, I have a girlfriend too, I understand.” Leslie Thompson had a nice face, Abigail noted. Natural hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wide brown eyes, a generous mouth with dimples and smile lines. A kind face, she decided, this woman really wanted to help her. 

“She’s home, with him, probably worried herself sick…”

“Him?” Leslie looked concerned, intrigued, and leaned forward a little, reaching for Abigail’s arm to lay a reassuring hand there.

“Hook,” she could not help herself. She needed to say their names, it made her feel close to them again. “He loves us, we stayed at his home, he gave it to us. It’s beautiful there, overlooking the sea.” Leslie quickly took a few notes. The poor officer really was trying her best, not that she could be of any help. 

“And this Hook, he still has Rose?”

“They’re together, at least they’re still together. He can’t be alone you know, he’s not the type of person that can stand to be alone…and he hates that other place, too many bad memories.” Abigail finished her tea. “It can be lonely there.”

“Where, this house by the ocean?”

“Neverland? No that’s another island, our house is further away.” The central air system began to blow chilled air into the room. Abigail shivered and pulled her blanket tighter around herself, even her gown of flimsy silk gave her more warmth. “Is my dress here? I want to take it back to the townhouse with me. Hook gave us gowns, gave us whatever we wanted, I don’t want to go home without it...I love that gown.” 

“You...had on a very fancy dress when we found you. I’m afraid it didn’t do so good in the rain, and it’s been added to the case as evidence, I can’t access it just yet until it’s processed.”

“My ballgown….I’ve ruined it,” tears began to well up again.

“Abigail, I’m going to get you some more tea and have a talk with my partner. We’ll get you all warmed up and settled. Just stay put and don’t stress yourself, honey.”

Leslie Thompson got to her feet and slowly backed away. She opened the door, and said softly, “Javier?”

Detective Sanchez glanced over at her from where he was talking to a man in a suit and Officer Thompson closed the door behind her. 

***

“I’ve seen this before, when trauma is too intense for the mind to handle, it creates a new reality as a coping mechanism. Sometimes this happens with just perception, other times with personality, there are a myriad of ways to escape the pain of a terrifying experience.” The doctor’s words were cold and precise, or at least that was how they seemed to her. His voice was calm, trying to be gentle and comforting. But no, she wouldn’t hear any of that. 

“I’m not crazy,” she said. She had kept saying that, over and over, maybe if she did it enough they would let her go. This night had only gotten worse. They were going to send her to a mental health hospital because she had told them about Neverland, and James, and that Rose was still with him. Why had she done that? Now they had started to diagnose her, already the prescriptions were piling up.

“I never said you were, Abigail,” the doctor whose name she didn’t bother to remember said slowly with a tiny smile. “We’re here to help you get better and find Rose.”

“She’s….far away...safe.” Don’t say anything else about magic, or pirates or anything. Give them mundane answers and they might let you go quicker. 

“You escaped and she didn’t, the police are worried about her. They’re sending patrols out to the bay right now, searching for any house which could be used as a hideaway.”

Abigail said nothing. Officer Thompson was present as well, assigned to her case she had to be there for the diagnosis. Abigail wanted to forgive her for telling her story, the woman only wanted to help her, but all she had done was make her last chance to escape fail miserably. 

“You had a check up before being brought to me,” he continued. “There is a scar on your back which wasn’t there before you and your girlfriend went missing.” He looked at his file with an uncomfortable expression which he barely managed to disguise. “Two letters, J. H.” He pulled his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed. This time he spoke to the policewoman. “Initials perhaps, of the kidnapper.”

Abigail wanted to correct him but kept her lips shut. 

“She said the name Hook during our meeting at the station,” Officer Thompson explained. An expression of disgust crossed her face as she looked down at the file, where a picture of the scar was stapled to a patient record. Pity and disgust... 

“I see…..with all this talk of Neverland and her desire to return to her abductor, it’s possible she’s projected this fairy tale character of Captain Hook onto the suspect you’re looking for. That would make sense for her coping with the situation, as far as I can surmise. More therapy will be needed, of course, she might not be able to give you a location or physical description for weeks.” Both her captors sighed with sadness, she felt sick. Weeks? No, she didn’t have weeks to spare, time ran so differently between worlds, it might be years until she got home. Would Rose and James wait for her that long? They had to….

“Please, Doctor Mitchell, there’s a second woman out there possibly in extreme danger. Who knows what that man will do to her once he finds his second victim escaped. The sooner we can find Rose the better.”

“I don’t want her here, I want to go home!” She couldn’t take it anymore, they were talking about her as if she couldn’t hear them. As if they knew what was best for her. They didn’t know anything, how could they? 

“Please calm down, we don’t need to call for sedation,” the doctor tried to placate her and failed miserably. 

“I will not be caged like an animal! Or sedated!” She tried to leap from her seat but could not get very far, they had buckled her in.

“Please, Abigail don’t fight us,” Officer Thompson tried to reason with her but her patience had run out. 

“No! You don’t know what I’ve been through! What Rose has been through! You can’t help me, now let me go!” she screamed. 

“Orderlies, I need 5 mg of midazolam!”

A prick at her arm, and after less than ten minutes of struggling and shouting, her world went black. 

***

Even in the gardens of the mental hospital, she could hear the drone of automobiles and the clamour of mainland life. But the garden reminded her of Rose so she went everyday, falling into a stupor among the plants for hours and hours, only arising from herself when the orderlies found her. In the middle of the garden was a crepe myrtle tree. Rose had one in her garden that she doted upon and Abigail pressed herself against the bark of the small winding trunks that embraced her, trying to stay grounded, to stay connected to herself and to her lovers. Being among the insane was driving her mad. 

“ _In the spring with blossoms crowned,_ ” she sang to the tree, struggling to keep a grip on herself. “ _In fall, apples ripe and round. Bless the flower and bless the seed. And bless the fruit of every tree._ ”

A breeze danced through the green gardens and she curled closer in on herself. 

“ _May winter’s cold to you be kind. May you blossom in the spring sunshine. May gentle rain in it’s season fall. May you be loved by one and all…_ ”

Her voice broke and she buried her face in her arms, drawing her knees up to her chest. Rose...James...the ones that loved her. The ones that were away from her. Far away in some other world with no way to return. Even Abigail did not know how she was brought back, but here she was, locked away. Like some damsel. She hated it. She hated them all. She fisted her hands in her hair, a dry wail tearing itself from her throat. 

Her body shook as though with chill. There was no magic in the air here, she was dying without it. There was no magic in this awful world and it was starving her. She was wasting away with no way to return to the magical realm and with no way of being saved. 

Before she knew what she was doing, her fingers started scrabbling at the dirt at the base of the tree, her hands churning through the dark soil, searching for any trace of magic or life in the earth. Rose had pulled life from the ground, maybe Abigail could too. The ground had been freshly watered so the damp dirt smeared against her pale skin and got under her fingernails but she did not care. She needed to feel magic again, to feel that energy coursing through her veins. 

“Abigail?”

The kind voice reached her from far away and she looked up, blinking at the bright sunlight emerging from behind a cloud. A man stood before her in white and she couldn’t see his face, the sun was too bright, but she thought she saw beautiful blue eyes. A hopeful smile crossed her face.

“James?” she reached for him with a filthy hand, “James, is that you? Did you find me?”

“No, Abigail, I’m Ian, remember? You remember me.”

The orderly moved and she could see his face properly. Her smile died and her face crumpled as she turned away. The earth was dead, there was no magic here. And there was no magic in her, not anymore. And she was alone. 

“It’s time to go back inside, Abigail,” Ian said gently, reaching out to take her wrists, “You have to eat dinner.”

She shook her head petulantly, “No.”

“Yes, Abigail.” Ian took her in his arms and she fought weakly against him, squirming, refusing to look at him again. “You have to eat. The doctor’s worried about your health. Come on, it’s time to go.”

“No,” she protested, “I want to stay outside…”

“I think you’ve played in the dirt plenty for today,” the orderly said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her back towards the hospital. They walked back into the stale air and false light of the building and Abigail tried to hold back tears. 

***

“I know where she is.”

James barely looked up from where he sat, his head laid down upon the surface of his desk. It was littered with empty bottles, the only source of respite he allowed himself these last few weeks. He was hungover, probably malnourished and probably a horrible sight to behold as he had slowly forgone all his usual careful preening. Useless as he was, he did not care for looking well, let alone feeling well. Not even the comfort of his remaining lady was something he would dare to allow himself. Rose was better than he deserved...as was Abigail. His lost lady. How he missed her. From sharp tongue and mocking smile, he missed her to the marrow of his being. In his dreams he saw constantly repeated the way in which her crystal eyes would flicker with the hint of a soul not yet mended from the cruelty of the world. And she was gone...taken by some unknown sorcery. 

He did not bother to pay attention as the footsteps came closer, at how they halted before the desk. 

“James get up!” A hand slammed down next to his head and his ear started ringing. 

“Damn it, Smee!” He went to slash with his hook only to remember he had not doned the weapon for weeks. With bleary eyes he saw not the portly bo’sun but the elegant figure of his Rose. 

“I am not Smee. And you are so far into your cups I’ll need a crane to fetch you out,” she was displeased with him. As she must be, he had not protected their lover after all. 

“I have no wish to be free of the spirits,” he grumbled at her and reached for another drink. She swiped it from him, his reflexes slowed by too much rum, and threw it right out the window. “What was that about?” He began to feel anger at her. Could she not let him mourn in the only way he knew how? 

“You obviously didn’t hear me the first time.” Both hands slammed down on the antique wood now, and she leaned in until their faces were but inches apart. “I know where she is.” Reality came to a screeching halt. Feeling sober for the first time in an age, James sat up straight and looked his lady in the eye. 

“You what?”

“Bless the ways of magic, James Hook, they showed me the way.” Shoving off the desk, Rose began rushing through the cabin to gather her things. “And bless that strange Mr. Strand, he’s gone and given me the map to find the way.” 

“Where? How?” On wobbly legs he stood, grabbing his harness and making for her side. “That imp? What did he do? 

“First, in a dream I had two days ago,” she said as she found a suit of Abigail’s clothes and carefully folded them into her bag. “You were passed out, there was no use telling you.”

“What was this dream?” Well did he know the powers of dreams, their mystical reach had bridged two worlds to bring the three of them together. Had Rose found some way to control them? 

“I saw her, recognized where she was and even spoke to her. It’s a place of healing not far from the city where we lived.” In a bizarre series of actions, she took every reflective surface in the cabin and laid them on the floor. When space became an issue, she roughly shoved his expensive furnishings off to the side, the noise made by the scraping on the floor hurt his ears and made his head pound. 

“She is in a sick house?” he asked while holding his aching head. She tossed a shirt at him, which he barely caught. 

“Of sorts. It is a place for repairing mental health, not physical problems. I am the one of the only people with legal rights to petition for her release.” Rose looked to him, clearly not understanding that he was not following her. 

“An asylum?” Oh he knew of those places, dens of filth and a prison for the insane. How had their Abigail ended up in such a nightmarish place?

“A treatment facility,” she corrected him. When she turned, she noticed he had yet to put on the shirt she threw at him. Quickly she helped him strap the harness around his chest, cranked it into place and assisted him in pulled the shirt over his head. “The doctors don’t believe that you are real, that any of this is real. And as far as they know, I’m still missing. Finish getting dressed, we have to leave as soon as possible.” 

“Leave? How?” When he did not move fast enough for her liking, she tossed more clothing at him and he had to duck to hide from the boots she threw across the cabin. “Blast it, woman, answer me!”

“Mr. Strand came to me with the location of the hospital, and thank the gods it’s in our hometown. How he figured it out I don’t know and, quite frankly, I don’t really care. As to getting there I have an idea!” she shouted back. The last mirrored sconce was set on the floor and she stood to survey her work. At Rose’s feet, King James meowed sadly as though he knew his remaining mistress was planning something. Reaching down, she pulled him in her arms, cuddling the little creature and kissing his fluffy head. “I’ve already asked Mr. Smee to take good care of you,” she murmured to the kitten. “We’ll be back soon, you’ll be well cared for until we get home.” The cat was placed in his ornate bed, where a sprig of valerian hung from the small canopy, the herb soon began to glow. When the feline had just barely touched the cushions, he was fast asleep. “Hopefully he won’t miss us too badly, at least he’ll sleep through our vanishing. I just hope I’m strong enough to pull this off.”

“What is that mess?” He gestured to the haphazard arrangement on the floor. 

“A portal, or at least I hope it’ll be one.” Hazel eyes, usually so warm, turned sternly to him. “Mirrors, like dreams, can be doorways. I’m going to try to send us back to the Mainland where we can find Abigail.” Her hand reached out for his. “Do you trust me?” This was not the sweet Rose who would spoon feed a sick crewman, nor the temptress who shared his bed and drove him mad with lust. This was a side of her which he had never seen, stronger, serious and ready to throw caution to the winds for the sake of a plan which may or may not work. His hand took hers, holding her tight. “Good.” 

She turned her gaze to the plethora of glass, crystal, bronze and gold which lay before them. It did resemble a doorway, taller than he and just wide enough to contain them both. A cloud of scarlet began to seep around her, crawling down her body to infect the objects with an eerie glow. When it made its way up his body, he felt its power melting into his skin, hot and stinging. It was not meant for him, but did not harm him either, simply it coated him like a cocoon. Her eyes glazed over as she concentrated, her breathing going shallow. On the floor, each of the mismatched objects began to twinkle. First they reflected the ceiling of the cabin, then for just a moment he could see in the broken image of an unfamiliar space. Over and over this happened, the strange scene lasting a little longer each time. Under her breath, Rose chanted something that almost sounded like a song. 

“Think of me, James,” she whispered. “Think of Abigail. Imagine that we have brought you to our old home, want it and think of nothing but that.”

He did as she asked, to the best of his ability. With no time to regain his sobriety, his mind was not as sharp as preferred, but time was of the essence. As he repeated her mantra in his mind, his gaze could not look away from the scene below. A garden...with a metal table….candles and crystals. 

“Yes,” Rose hissed and smiled. The image held now, the flickering gone, and she began to tremble. “I can’t...hold it long,” her breathing began to grow harsh. She took a step forward, and to his shock he watched as her foot stepped down...and vanished. There was no time to react, say a word of disbelief, she pulled him after her and together they fell.


End file.
